Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas
by Sendai
Summary: Change of summary. Adventure fic with a good bit of fluff. John is kidnapped while volunteering at a shelter. Sherlock searches for John (no really?). Christmas-y background. Sort of. Rated M for mild adult situations, language, children in mild peril, some violence, snogging at the end. Epilogue now posted (or Chapter 9 if you prefer) :D
1. Chapter 1

Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas*

**A/N** Short Silly Christmas-y Fluff. I figure it will be a few chapters long, because I am constitutionally unable to write a one chapter story. In my head, this is a sequel to one of my earlier fics, Date Night. However, this fic can easily be read alone. Rated M to be safe (but is probably only a T) for mild adult situations and cursing, child kidnapping, and limited mild violence.

Maybe, if I am very good, Father Christmas will help me finish it by the 25th. Happy Holidays :D

**Chapter the First**

"This is waste of time," complained Detective Inspector Lestrade. "We've reviewed surveillance about a hundred and fifty times, Sherlock, and there is just nothing there.

"I see that I grossly underestimated your stupidity, Lestrade," said Sherlock Holmes, who studied the shadowy figure caught on a security camera during the kidnapping.

"Sherlock," muttered John in warning. The blond stood to one side with his arms crossed and blew a silent sigh out of his pursed lips. Honestly, he agreed with Greg, it actually did seem like they had reviewed the video a hundred and fifty times.

"No really," said Sherlock, speaking around his steepled fingers. "I thought Lestrade at least capable of counting to nine, which is in fact the number of times that we have reviewed the video recordings. There must be something…something we have missed!"

"Sherlock, there is nothing! A hooded figure sneaks up to the block of flats and disappears from view. Then he somehow he got in, disabled the camera, tied up the babysitter and made off with two little girls." snapped Greg Lestrade, who was beside himself with worry. This case hit way too close to home. Lestrade had called his ex-wife three times already to check in on his own girls. Thank God they were safe even if he would not be able to see them until well after Christmas.

"There really is nothing," repeated the detective inspector, quieter although still very frustrated. "Nothing helpful on the recordings. No clues at the scene. There's been no ransom demand. Nothing."

The two detectives glared at the screen and watched again as the masked, hooded figure crept up to the building and then vanished round a corner.

John sighed again. He could only imagine the heartache that the girls' mother and step-father felt right now. Not to mention the poor grandfather, who had collapsed with a minor coronary when he learned the news of the girls' abduction.

John was almost glad that the girls' father had died in Afghanistan nearly five years earlier. The kidnapping would have been a severe blow to any father. The former army doctor had worked under Major John Roberts only briefly. But even this tenuous tie to the family made it a bit difficult for John. That, and the involvement of children. He just couldn't understand, how anyone deliberately hurt children?

John massaged the worry lines etched between his eyes, before he tilted his head, cracking his stiff neck. Three days and three nights of chasing down phantom leads. Almost no sleep, practically nothing to eat…not that John even had an appetite. Who could think about eating with five and ten-year old girls missing? John checked the time and was surprised that it was already half three. Time to go and get ready.

"Well, I'm off," said Doctor John Watson slipping on his bomber jacket.

Two heads whipped around in surprise. Lestrade's mouth gaped open, and Sherlock glared with dangerously narrowed eyes.

"I thought we agreed that you would not be going out tonight with _Mary_," said Sherlock venomously.

"Nooo," said John with pursed lips. "You decided I shouldn't go. I decided that I should. End of discussion."

"Mary?" asked Lestrade, with a weary grin, "Mary Morstan? That cute blond internist? It's about time, mate. She's been trying to get you on a date with her forever." The detective inspector paused and his smile faded when he noticed that his office was about to spontaneously combust.

"It's not like that, Greg," said the blond doctor with a hurried glance at his flat mate. "I promised to escort Mary to this sort of party months ago. Actually, I agreed to go to this…thing, before someone came back from his…absence."

Shite, thought Lestrade. John still couldn't say the words '_Sherlock's fake death'_. He was fairly certain that John couldn't complete a sentence that contained the both Sherlock and any word such as dead, death, die, dying, funeral, suicide…

Sherlock, very much alive, curled his lip contemptuously. "Doctor Watson has a secret assignation to dine with the lovely Miss. Morstan, which is rather surprising given that we are in close pursuit of a kidnapper…

John rolled his eyes heavenwards, silently begging for divine intervention. "We are not pursuit of anyone, Sherlock. There are no new leads . Nothing is happening at all, except you two bickering. I think you two can carry on without my assistance for a few hours. Furthermore, it's hardly a surprise; I've been telling you that I had plans on Christmas Eve for at least the last six weeks."

"You do not deny that it's a date and a dinner for which you have to dress up," said the haughty consulting detective.

"I do deny it's a date!" snapped John, who was becoming angry with his secret, new boyfriend as of one week ago. "Yes, there will be a dinner, and no, I probably won't be eating. Yes, I have to dress up. Look, it's a big-deal for Mary's... friends. They all get together for this big annual party. And every year, they quiz Mary about not having an escort, so when she asked me, _months ago_, I said yes. For the record, Mary and I are quite clear that we are just friends."

"Friendships can suddenly change into romantic liaisons," challenged Sherlock Holmes, with an intense stare at his flat mate.

Lestrade was suddenly, absolutely sure that he was missing something vital here.

"I will not be having romantic liaisons with Mary Morstan. She is not my type. AT ALL," said John in clipped tones. He glowered at the man who, despite all of John's previous denials, was in fact John's type. "Now, I am running late. I will have my mobile with me if there is an emergency. I will be home at about 2300 hours. Good night, Sherlock. Merry Christmas, Greg and thank you."

The short blond marched out of the office. It was never a good sign when John marched; it generally meant that the good doctor was trying to hide some upset. Lestrade wondered again about these two.

"So, um, you and JOhn?" Lestrade tentatively asked the consulting detective.

"I would like to interview the girls' mother myself," said Sherlock, completely ignoring Lestrade's question.

The detective inspector carefully considered the consulting detective's demand. On the plus side, Sherlock had been a bit nicer to witnesses and victims since his 'miraculous' return from the dead. And Lestrade would be there, ready to rein in the younger man if necessary. On the negative side, the poor mother was already on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and John would have been a much better choice as a reiner-inner for the consulting detective.

Still, they had no leads, and it had already been nearly seventy-two hours, since the girls were taken. The odds of a happy ending were dwindling rapidly. Lestrade was willing to try almost anything.

"Fine. I will call Sally, she's on duty for a couple more hours at the family's flat, in case the kidnapper calls with a ransom demand," said the silver-haired inspector. He ignored the supercilious Holmesian eye-roll. "I'll tell her that we're on our way," He decided to test the waters again, "It's a bit odd, that John would leave in the middle of a case like this, isn't it?"

Sherlock did not deign to respond. Instead, he jumped to his feet and swooped out of the conference room, startling a PC into dropping his files. Lestrade dry washed his face and hurried after his consultant.

* * *

John Watson stood in front of his mirror. His lips were pressed so tightly together that they appeared white. He could not go through with this. He owed Mary his life, but he could not go through with this…this…travesty! He shook his head, and the bells on the tip of his hat rang out merrily.

The doctor clenched his fists and his jaw, aching to shoot the green hat with its white, faux-fur trim and three, count them three, bright red jingling bells.

He gazed down with revulsion at his jaunty green boots, each with its own jingle bell. Bringing his gaze up, he glowered at the bright green tights. They were positively indecent. Who the hell decided that elves couldn't wear sensible trousers? The white trimmed, clingy tunic was barely long enough to hide his private bits. God forbid, if Father Christmas' helper had to bend over to pick up a present, because then his bum would be on display for the entire world.

This was humiliating. John Watson: Christmas Elf. Santa's Little Helper, St. Nick's sidekick.

John tried to remind himself that this was all for a good cause. This was a favor to a good friend, who had helped him get through the worst months of his life. This was for charity. This was for Christmas.

This was for the birds.

He shook his head in disgust, making the annoying bells ring. Grabbing the oversized trench coat, which he'd borrowed from Doctor Harrison specifically to hide the ridiculous costume, he made his way downstairs. Hopefully, Mary would be on time to pick him up, because John really wanted to get this debacle over with.

On the plus side, John's flat mate was busy down at the yard and would never see this get-up. On the minus side, his flat mate was very angry with him. Brilliant, one week into dating Sherlock Holmes, and they were already in the middle of a major domestic. Brilliant.

* * *

Inevitably, the interview was a disappointing waste of time. The mother could shed no light on the matter but did shed copious tears, which annoyed Sherlock, who was already on edge without John.

In an astounding display of self-restraint, Sherlock kept his annoyance to himself, and left the house with his coat swirling behind him. It was a pity that John had not witnessed his prodigious efforts to not publically announce that the step father was hiding his affair with his PA, that the mother had just started an affair with her German co-worker, that the babysitter was a drug addict and that Donovan and Anderson had resumed their illicit relationship.

Surely, John would have been proud. But no, John was with Mary. suspiciously, John had refused to tell Sherlock where or what he was up to tonight. The Doctor had forced Sherlock to promise not to follow him or stalk him or to ask Mycroft to do the same. Sherlock was proud that John had thought to add that last codicil onto the bargain. Really, John could be quite intelligent, for an idiot.

However, upon re-examining the crime scene, the consulting detective had found a single, short red hair in the girls room, which did not match the hair of any family member, nor that of the babysitter. Sherlock had also found two tiny smudges of dirt on the door jamb and a some greenish threads caught on a nail in the doorway. Possibly, the kidnapper had fallen against the door jamb as he absconded with the two missing girls.

The tall brunet dropped onto a stool to begin his investigations. Then he looked up at Lestrade, who still hadn't left.

"Why are you here, Lestrade?" asked Sherlock, his head tilted to one side.

"Because you've got evidence there. I'm making sure…"

"No that's not it," said the consulting detective, studying the older man. "You've been texting all evening. Ever since John left in fact."

"Oh for God's sake!" said Lestrade. "I am here because that hair and those threads are official evidence taken from a crime scene. AND, I promised John that I wouldn't let you leave my sight until he got back around 11 tonight. He's checked in every fifteen to twenty minutes, I might add. So, would you mind telling me what is up with you two?'

"Nothing is up, Lestrade," said the cold, impassive detective. He turned back to the microscopic examination of the hair. Inside, he was jumping up and down and proclaiming that it was Christmas, which ironically, it was.

John was worried about his flat mate/boyfriend. Was Sherlock John's boyfriend? Never mind.

Perhaps, John wasn't on a date after all. And even if it was a date, John's constant texting of Lestrade would insult Mary and ruin the date. And best of all, John couldn't be 'getting it on' with Mary, not if he'd promised Lestrade that he'd be back by 11. John was always conscientious; he always kept his promises. Ergo, John would be home by 11.

The consulting detective smirked when Lestrade's mobile alerted an incoming text. Apparently, John was a very inattentive date. Apparently, JOhn was more interested in Sherlock Holmes than in Mary Morstan. Sherlock hummed happily as he prepared the slides.

* * *

John was bored. Well he was alternately bored and mortified. This Christmas Eve would live in infamy, and JOhn did not owe Mary another favor, not for the rest of his life.

Mary and John, both wearing matching elves costumes, had helped Father Christmas and several other volunteers dish out a traditional Christmas dinner for homeless clients. John might have almost enjoyed it, except that Beatrice, a sixty-something-ish widow, had pinched his bum three times. And the night was still young.

Finally, it was time for the presents. It was touching to watch the faces of the youngsters, who each received warm coats and mittens plus a new toy and book. It was heartwarming to give blankets and mufflers to the elderly men, who lived rough in spite of this awful weather. It was mortifying to have Father Bloody Christmas grab his bloody arse and promise to come down John's chimney for Christmas. And John couldn't do a thing about it, without ruining Christmas for all of these people.

With a big smile plastered on his face, John managed to quietly issue a death threat into the ear of Father Christmas, who choked on his next Ho Ho Ho. Santa's Little Helper, his bells jingling merrily, marched to the other side of the room to box up the left-overs for take away.

Then, just when it couldn't get worse…it did. Connie Prince's idiot brother arrived. Mr. Prince had become a popular television celebrity after the death of his beloved sister. Mr. Prince hosted a nightly talk show, and tonight's feature story was typical, mindless, feel-good holiday fare. John shuddered and tried to plan his escape.

The television host postured in front of the tinsel covered tree, ensuring that the cameras caught his good side. Kenny Prince was wearing a hideous red and green jumper, which JOhn secretly admired. Unfortunately, the jumper clashed with the tree. It took a couple more minutes to reposition the host, the lights and the camera.

Kenny began to speak into the microphone, "Testing. Testing. Hemmm. Hemmm. All set? Hemm. Hemmmm. Yes? Right. _Oh welcome, welcome,_ my _wonderful, loyal_ audience. Have we got a _special evening_ in store for you," He gushed, smoothing down his thinning hair. "Here, at one of London's busiest shelters, the staff of St. Bart's outpatient clinic is donating time, gifts and talent to help Father Christmas spread Yuletide cheer. I promise you, we will meet with Father Christmas himself. And I _can't wait_ to introduce you to the _gorgeous little elves_ who are making this night so very special for all these lovely people"

John kept his head down, hoping the jingle bells wouldn't give him away. The little elf cravenly hid behind Beatrice. She was thrilled with his company.

* * *

"Sherlock."

"No, No, No!"

"Sherlock."

"It makes no sense. Where did the hair come from, if not the kidnapper?" the consulting detective asked himself.

"Sherlock!"

"It has to have come from the kidnapper!"

"SHERLOCK!" yelled the red-faced detective inspector. "That's impossible. The hair came from a dog. Are you suggesting that the kidnapper was a dog? A dog wearing green clothes?"

"Dear God," said Sherlock. "You've suffered irreparable brain damage from prolonged contact with Anderson! Text John and tell him to come here at once!"

"Text him yourself, Sherlock. You've got a phone," said Lestrade, burying his head in his arms on top of his desk. He was just so tired and so frustrated by this case. He was so worried about those missing children. And JOhn Watson was so going to pay for leaving Lestrade alone with this mad man.

"John won't answer my texts,' said Sherlock pouting. "I need someone here who at least has half a brain!"

"Sherlock…"

"No, John needs to come at once. We are on the verge of a solution; we have the clues…"

"What a canine kidnapper in a green jacket?" asked Sally echoing the detective inspector.

Sherlock looked up and glared down his nose at her. "You are all idiots," he said contemptuously. "The kidnapper was not wearing green. Did you not look at the fibers? They were green, khaki and brown." He stopped traipsing back and forth and looked expectantly at them. Seeing their blank looks. he rolled his eyes and resumed pacing.

"Does sound echo inside your empty little heads?" continued the detective. "The man, we'll assume it was a man for now, statistically it will have been a man, was wearing camouflage. He is possibly a hunter, possibly a militia want-to-be or…."he prompted again.

"Um…military?" suggested Sally uncertainly.

"Military or ex-military!" said Sherlock decisively. "It isn't hunting season and we're in London, ergo the kidnapper has real or imagined ties to the military, and he owns a red-haired dog, probably a pit bull…"

"Oh he's just making that up!" whined Anderson.

"Anderson go home; you are not only lowering the IQ of Lestrade, but of the entire building," demanded Sherlock, whirling around. "Lestrade, I need to talk to the family again."

"It's past 9 o'clock! You can't keep botherin' them," said Sally.

"Do you honestly think they will care? If it leads us to a breakthrought…"

"Sherlock is right," said Lestrade. "Of course we need to talk to the parents again, if there is any chance it will help. I think PC Schmidt and that counselor, Moira Denhem are with the family tonight. Sally, call Schmidt and have her get the mother on the phone." Sally frowned and stepped out the door, her phone in hand.

Greg dragged his hand through his hair and continued speaking, "Anderson, there's really nothing else you can do right now. In fact half the people in the office out front, are not even on duty. It's Christmas. Lets send some of these people home…"

"We want to be here, Lestrade," protested Anderson, his face candid for once. "This case struck a nerve for a lot of us. My own sister lives only a mile away from the Berry's flat. My sister has three children…"

"No one will be able to contribute to this case if they are exhausted," said Sherlock. The room went silent, as Anderson and Lestrade looked at Sherlock in surprise. "That is what Doctor Watson would say... Obviously, I don't care."

Sherlock turned his back to the room to maintain the illusion of his sociopathy.

"Anderson," said Lestrade, shaking his head, "as long as you're here, talk to people and _suggest_ that they go home. Tell them to get some rest and spend time with their families. It's a suggestion, not an order…yet."

"And Sherlock, what are you looking for in those files?" asked the detective inspector, rubbing his aching forehead.

"Military connections. Red dogs. Thespian connections."

"Thespian?"

"The smudges: wax, glycerin, acacia senegal gum, Iron oxides, Bismuth oxychloride, several dyes." Sherlock looked up at Lestrade. "Face paint, so could be an actor."

"Oi! Oi! Lestrade, get out here!" yelled Sally. Lestrade ran for the door, closely followed by Sherlock. Sergeant Donovan held her phone loosely in her hand. She, and everyone else in the room stared at the telly mounted on the wall.

"Donovan what is it?," asked Lestrade exasperated. "I don't have time for this."

Sherlock tsk'ed loudly.

"It's the Kenny Prince Show," said Sally. "Shut up and watch…there, there, there he is!"

And there, on the telly, handing out a boxed dinner to a homeless woman, was JOhn Watson MD, dressed in green tights and tunic. The ersatz Christmas elf bent over to put a parcel in the woman's tote. The camera focused in on the elf's green clad bum. Kenny Prince sighed loudly.

"And that, dear viewers, is a package I'd dearly like to unwrap Christmas morning," said Kenny Prince. followed by canned laughter.

"Yeah, not bad attall," murmured someone in the room appreciatively.

Sherlock growled. Lestrade was sure that he heard Sherlock Holmes growl.

"Ho ho ho, what's your name, little elf," Kenny asked the elf.

The crimson faced elf slowly stood to attention, making the festive bells on his hat jingle softly. The elf scanned the room and clenched his fists. "John," he said.

"Ohhh, Johnny Jinglebell Elf!" said Kenny, thinking he was very clever. "And will you come put a present under my tree this year? I've been _ever so good_." The canned laugher rolled.

"Merry. Christmas." spat Johnny the Elf, at Kenny Prince. His blue eyes blazed under his fully lowered brow.

"He's gonna punch 'im," muttered Donovan. The Yarders held their breath, waiting for the smack down.

Then John fixed a fake smile on his face and motioned a lady Elf over. The Yarders sighed with a mixture of relief and disappointment

"Merry. Christmas," Johnny Jinglebell Elf ground out again, before he marched away with military precision, his bells ringing cherrily with each step that he took. The camera panned back, to show Kenny leering happily as Father Christmas goosed his little helper, making him jump. More canned laugher played over a bleeped expletive.

Sherlock definitely growled.

"How can they show this tripe on Christmas Eve?" muttered one of the PC's.

"Turn it off," said Lestrade wearily. "And I don't want any of you taking the piss out of John. He's volunteering there on Christmas Eve, handing out food and toys…"

"No, leave it on," said Anderson."They've promised that there's going to be excitement in the next segment. I'm betting Father Christmas gets a black eye from our favorite little fairy."

Sherlock moved in, only to be blocked by Lestrade.

"What? I'm on Watson's side this time!" protested Anderson, who really looked confused. "Elves are fairies. He's dressed as a fairy. Anyway, I'm not the one who said anything about his tight little arse." He looked pointedly at PC Firth.

"It weren't me," Firth denied immediately, casting a worried look at the consulting detective.

Fortunately for PC Firth, Kenny was back on-screen, jovially harassing a pretty blonde, who was dressed just like John.

"Mary, Mary, my Caroling Elf, tell us," said Kenny, "in your own words, why you're all here on Christmas Eve." He gave Mary a big, one-armed hug.

"Well, yes," said Mary, looking decidedly ill at ease. "We, erm, Well, Father Christmas wanted us to give a little party here for the kids and their families and erm, everyone in the area." She got another hug from the host. "But, now Father Christmas has to, uh, go and start, um, erm delivering all those toys. Yes. He has to go now."

"Looks to me like Father Christmas started partying early," muttered Donovan.

Father Christmas was being escorted to the door, supported on one side by a scowling Johnny Jinglebell Elf and on the other by a sturdy volunteer. They passed the tables and a short line of people getting packages of leftover food.

" Ho, Ho, Ho!" yelled the jolly Santa, giving John a big hug.

"Ohhh, I see what Father Christmas wants for Christmas," said Kenny, to more canned laughter.

Ho, Ho, Ho!" boomed St. Nick.

John, Father Christmas and the stout volunteer stopped at the last table. The camera panned again to show the procession in the back ground, while Kenny's face filled the screen, twittering more nonsense.

In the background, Johnny the Elf let go of St. Nick and leaned forward. John pushed his hat back as his brow creased in concentration. The doctor turned elf stared down a grey-haired man with dark stubble on his face. The man glowered at the elf, and then his dark eyes widened.

John the Elf Watson shoved Father Christmas roughly into the volunteer, forcing both men to stumble backwards into the Christmas tree.

The camera panned in as John snarled, and climbed over the table, knocking a plates of biscuits to the floor. The grizzled man, wearing a grey-green parka turned and fled. Johnny Jinglebell Elf, pushed the pretty blond elf out of his way and tore through the door after the homeless man.

"Ohhh, Johnny Jinglebell Elf must like a bit o' rough…" blithered Kenny.

"Turn the damn thing down," shouted Lestrade. "Is this live or…"

"There was a clock on the wall behind Prince, it was off by only thirty, thirty-fve minutes," said Anderson.

Sherlock raised his eyes in surprise that Anderson could actually be useful. "Lestrade, when was the last time John texted you? Where is that church located?" demanded Sherlock who was already texting.

"What church?" asked Donovan, who was already on her phone.

"Oh, please! The shelter's obviously part of a church, probably in the basement. Look at the pictures of saints and the crosses all over the walls. Look at the paltitudes displayed…"

"Hey, those are quotations from the Bible," protested someone.

"You think John's in trouble?" interrupted Lestrade. He did not want to get Sherlock on one of his anti-religious diatribes.

"Of course he's in trouble. He's all alone, chasing after a man for unknown reasons, while dressed as a fairy wearing green tights!" snapped Sherlock. "Obviously he's in serious trouble. We haven't a moment to lose!"

**TBC**

**A/N ***The song, Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas is from Meet Me In St. Louis. Music by Ralph Blane, Lyrics by Hugh Martin

**Reviews, like stocking stuffers, are always appreciated.**

**Disclaimer** I don't own the rights to Sherlock.

End Chapter one


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N** I am in a bit of a hurry to post this chapter (and all the others).

So here's the query. Am I rushing this fic because: a) I want to finish it before X-mas (but probably won't) b) I should be working on my other fics c) I want to overdose on sugary fluff d) I want to see how many times I can type JOhn instead of John e) all of the above?

Answer: c) I want to overdose on sugary fluff. I mean really, I love that marshmallowy fluff stuff. Try fluff on a peanut better sandwich, mmmm.

Okay, the real answer is not c. When in doubt, always pick the 'all of the above' answer. Really, it's correct more often than not. So…..

My final answer is: e) all of the above.

Come on gang; cut me some slack. It's Christmas and I've lost my mind.

BTW someone (one of my favorite reviewers, mind you) mentioned that I might have mentioned John's bum fairly often in chapter one. That will not be an issue in the next chapter. I think. But then again, it is a very nice bum...Still, I'm pretty sure that John's bum is not mentioned in chapter 2. Let's read on and find out.

**Chapter the Second**

On a dead run, John turned the corner, once again surfing on top of the slushy leftovers from last week's record snowfall. As he careened into the unyielding brick wall, a small alarm bell sounded in John's head. He was quite alone and chasing a possibly (probably) dangerous man. Maybe, thought John, this was a bit _too_ dangerous?

Nope. John couldn't just let the man escape, not if he was the kidnapper. John ignored the alarm and continued his chase. Hopefully, his friends had already called the police.

Thanks to his zero-traction elf boots, the doctor slid up against a dumpster and lost his Jinglebell hat. The doctor-turned-elf panted, his breath steaming in the cold, damp air. John felt for his phone, thinking a 999 call might be in order. Unfortunately his phone and his wallet had been left in the trench coat, since the ridiculous costume had no pockets. John pushed off, following the grey-haired man further into the bewildering maze of deserted streets and filthy alleys.

The chase turned another corner, in an effort to lose John Watson, who was catching up. The elf rounded the corner and ran face first into a fist. His nose exploded with pain, blinding him with white starbursts.

John swung wildly and hit a soft gut, and his following right hook landed on a jaw. A surprisingly hard fist connected with the side of John's head. And so Christmas is ruined, thought John numbly. Christmas bells rang in his ear joining the festive white stars. The attacker may have yelled at him, but John really couldn't hear very well-because of the bells. John was already staggering and sinking down, when a third blow landed on the doctor's jaw, and then someone rudely turned out the lights.

The lights came back on slowly. John blinked. Not liking what he saw, he closed his eyes again. He considered staying this way indefinitely, but the soldier in him voted for some reconnaissance. He briefly thought that he might have been captured by the Taliban. His heart was trying to claw it's way out of his chest, and he took a deep calming breath like Ella used to recommend. Ella. London, he was in London. John took another deep breath; it didn't really help much.

He did not recognize the darkened room, lit only by a kerosene lantern. The low light was rather a good thing, because John had a nasty headache. He glanced around slowly trying to figure out where he was. The water-stained walls had once been green, maybe. There were a couple of mismatched chairs in the room and broken-down, puce sofa. A rickety table held the lantern, some newspapers and a dirty, little plastic bag holding traces of white powder. Oh lovely, thought John, drugs. The windows were covered completely with cardboard and duct tape; no doubt to ensure privacy while shooting up.

John had screwed up royally. Apparently, he had landed himself in a drug den or crack house.

John raised his hands, which of course, were handcuffed together. This waking up in bondage happened way too often, thought John. He rubbed at his sore jaw. Well, there was nothing actually broken, so that was good, right. He felt around; his face was wet. Holding his hands out, he saw that they had blood on them. Things kept getting better and better.

John gently touched his very tender and possibly broken nose. Well, maybe not broken…but his injured nose explained the blood on his face, sniffed John to himself. Actually, he couldn't sniff very well; the left side of his nose was effectively blocked, thanks to the nosebleed.

All in all, things were FUBAR and likely to remain FUBAR. Maybe he should try standing, except he was a bit dizzy.

The ex-army doctor lifted his chin as he tried to recall how he got into this predicament. He remembered the stupid party and then chasing a man who John had thought was Major Roberts, which had not been a good idea at all.

John vaguely remembered a brief fist-fight, which he had obviously lost. And now he was here. Wherever here was.

Had the man who John chased even _been_ the late Major Roberts? Christ, maybe John had just over reacted to some guy that resembled Roberts.

Sherlock would have some choice words for John after this was all over. Words like 'idiot' and "tiny brain' came to mind. Ah well, perhaps Mycroft was right all along, perhaps bravery was the kindest word for stupidity.

"I know you; don't I?" a man's gravelly voice asked from behind John. The startled doctor swung his head around. Another bad idea, in the long line of tonight's bad ideas, because this caused the room to slip to one side and spin. John grit his teeth to prevent himself from sicking up, at least until his captor was in within range.

"You look familiar… sort of," said the voice, John very carefully and very slowly turned his head to see the grizzled face of the not so late Major Roberts. At least John had been right on that score, although it didn't really help John's situation any.

John was pretty sure that making a run for the door would not end in a successful escape. Still he was very brave/stupid, so he stood up. A strong hand shoved him back into his chair. The movement caused a bit more of the nasty spinning and nausea.

"Well, _do_ we know each other?" demanded the Major.

"I dunno; do we?" asked John acidly. He received a slap to the back of his head, which set the carnival ride in motion again. John closed his eyes and waited for the spinning to stop. Maybe goading his captor was another one of those bad ideas.

"Do I know you!" shouted Roberts. He'd changed a lot. He was thin, grey haired and unkempt, but John was certain that it was the former Major. In years past, Doctor Watson would have been shocked to see a supposed dead man turn up alive. Now however, John was only a bit surprised. Lots of people in London died and then came back again. Adler did it, Sherlock did it, Adler did it again, that drug dealer did it and now Major Roberts did it. John supposed it was time for Adler to return again too.

John sighed in resignation.

"I think…maybe we don't know each other?" John suggested, after he decided that anonymity was the better part of valor. "I thought I knew you, but now I guess I was wrong? Actually, this has all been a terrible misunderstanding. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for being a bother. Perhaps its best if I left now?" John made to stand but sat back quickly when Roberts looked ready to punch him.

"Best? Leave. No, no you''re not leaving," said Roberts, shaking his head in some confusion. The major seemed to have a few screws loose up top. "Well? Well?" That scratchy voice became urgent.

"Um, what? What?" said John anxiously. He had no clue what his jailer wanted. He really didn't want to be hit again.

"What's your name?" Roberts demanded, his right eye erratically winked at John.

"Umm, John," said the former army doctor. "Yeah, John." The short doctor waited nervously for a sign of recognition; there was none. "So, um, what's your name?" asked John.

"You a medic of some kind? A doctor maybe?" asked Roberts, ignoring John's question.

"Yeah, I'm a…a medic," said John. "And clearly you have no need for a medic, like I said, this was all a big mistake."

"I can use a medic," said Roberts vaguely, the tic still working. Yeah, the man was definitely off, thought Doctor Watson. He's even more daft than I am.

"You know, my friends are probably looking for me," added John, squinting his eyes to make them focus. "I'm sure they'll track me down…"

"Nah. They can look, but no one's gonna track us down here. Anyways, I'll be outta here soon," said Roberts more confidently. "We're just waiting for Lisbeth to get better."

"What about Lisbeth?" John jumped in before thinking. "Is she hurt? I, I mean…um, who is she? Who's Liz- Beth?" asked John, as the former Major narrowed his eyes.

"Lisbeth is my daughter," said the older man, grabbing a fistful of John's green tunic and shaking him. "She's mine. They're both mine. You just never mind about Lisbeth. Nobody gets them. She can't have them. Never."

John bit his tongue and rode out the vertigo. When John opened his eyes Roberts was in his face, spittle on his lips.

"Right. Sure. Okay," soothed John, thinking, oh my God, I've been kidnapped by a rabid lunatic. "You mentioned you could use a medic? Um, to treat your daughter maybe? And I'm a medic, yeah? So, what's wrong with Lisbeth? Can I, um… see her?"

"You sure you're a medic?" asked Roberts suspiciously, making a fist. That at least was a reasonable question, reasoned John, because Doctor Watson probably looked like a demented fairy in his damned elf suit.

"Yeah, I'm a doctor. I work at the clinic. I see lots of patients," John began to babble distract the crazy addict with an overactive fist. "Sort of a dull job, but it's a living. It's locum work. It's, um I fill-in when one of the other doc's gets sick or goes on holiday," John babbled until his captor shook him again to shut him up.

Roberts's eyes narrowed as he studied the battered Jinglebell Elf. "The clinic? I…I don't remember…I forget sometimes. I remember what she took from me though…that bitch." The ex-major's fists shook as he got himself worked up again.

"Right. Never mind her then," said John, wary of the unstable man. "Let's concentrate on Lisbeth, yeah?"

The older man panted for a minute; his dark eyes unfocused. Then he asked, "Are you a medic?"

"Yeah. Sure. I'm a medic," repeated John. Maybe, if the man was a loony, it would be easier for Sherlock to track find John. Or not…

"I need a medic," the former Major repeated. John was beginning to understand why Sherlock hated repetition so much. It was dull. It was irritating, and it made John's head hurt.

His captor pointed to a closed door. "Lisbeth's in the bed room with Emily. She came down with a fever. I forget when. Now she's got a cough," said Roberts. "You're a medic, right? Go fix her."

"Um, I'd like to go check on…on Lisbeth, but I could probably do a better job if I had my hands free?" suggested John, holding his hands up hopefully.

Roberts laughed, pulled John to a stand by his bound wrists and marched him to the locked door. He did not uncuff the doctor's hands.

He threw the shiny new bolts open and unlocked the door with a key from his pocket. The room on the other side was dingy but cheerful in comparison with the main room. The walls wore the same faded, chipped paint as the outer room; two posters hung listlessly on the wall. One was a poster of kittens, and one was of Disney princesses, (John recognized Cinderella from his childhood. The big Disney logo on the bottom of the poster was another good clue that the cartoon princesses belonged to Disney.).

John scanned the room. There were two pallets on the floor made up with multiple blankets and topped with bright pink, princess-covered comforters. There was a milk crate acting as a table that held a battery-powered lantern. Another milk crate held a medicine bottle and some drawing paper. A kerosene lantern hung from the ceiling to provide more light.

This room had been carefully prepared for it's tiny occupants, deduced the assistant sleuth. John could almost hear Sherlock's dry, 'obviously'. God, John wished he could hear Sherlock's voice for real.

John was pushed into the room, none too gently. He finished looking the room over. A kerosene heater sat in the corner, next to two large coolers. The former army doctor was pretty sure that the heater was not a good thing to have running in the unventilated room. But it explained the warmth and the stuffiness in the 'bedroom'.

He finally took in the two little girls, who currently shared a pallet. The older brunette had been reading a picture book to her sister, who seemed only half awake. The older girl, a brunette with tousled hair, stared silently at John and Roberts. The younger blonde turned her head away from the men and pretended to fall asleep.

John had to step over books and crayons, which were scattered on the floor. He also avoided stepping on a few stuffed animals and empty juice boxes. At least the girls had been given juice to drink. And banana's and crisps judging from the peels and empty wrappers.

John glanced back at the lunatic who was holding the three of them prisoner. It was all a bit not good. And even though it was stupid, John felt even worse because it was Christmas. Sherlock would have a field day if he knew his idiot flat mate harbored such pointless emotions . And that made John miss his flat mate with a keen pain that rivaled his headache in intensity.

Before he succumbed to maudlin sentiment, John switched into doctor mode. "I need to know a little more about Lisbeth and when she got sick. Is she basically healthy?"

No one answered.

Doctor Watson tried again. "Does she go to the doctors much for, um things like asthma or diabetes?"John looked at Roberts's blank look.

"I don't remember stuff like that," said Roberts. God he was bluffing, John realized. The man knew nothing at all about his daughter. It all fit. As far as John knew, the man had never even met Lisbeth until the kidnapping, and he probably hadn't seen Emily since she was for or five years old.

John turned his attention to the older sister, "Hi there," he said "I'm a..."

"Are you s'posed to be a…a elf?" asked the older sister, looking both worried and scornful, and just a bit hopeful too.

John paused. He looked down at his green tights with both the knees torn out and the soggy boots with their sad, red jinglebells still attached. He met the girl's big, brown, hopeful eyes and melted a bit inside. She was pretty damn brave for a kidnapped ten-year old, and it looked like she'd probably prefer an elf to an old. ex-army doctor. So, why not play along?

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm an elf named John," said Doctor Watson. "I'm an elf doctor," he added. A kidnapped elf doctor, with a possible mild concussion, whose wrists are handcuffed together, and whose friends better damn well be looking for him, he added to himself.

"Um, what's your name?" asked John, even though he already knew her name from the pictures.

"I'm Emily," said the older sibling. "and this is Lisbeth. Her real name is Elizabeth, but she hates it. Do elves really need doctors?"

"Yup. Sure they do," said John, who gave Roberts a withering glare. The man was mad, and he was an idiot-a dangerous and cruel idiot- for taking these children from their home. And then leaving a sick child alone with only her ten-year old sister to care for her. And leaving medicine within reach of children? John had to unclench his fists as he crouched awkwardly.

"Did Lisbeth get some of this paracetamol?" asked Doctor Watson, feeling Lisbeth's warm forehead.

"She has a high fever," said Roberts. "I gave her half a teaspoon of the fever medicine but it didn't help," he added. Doctor Watson rolled his eyes.

"Well of course it didn't work. That wasn't nearly enough medicine for her age. Didn't it occur to you to read the label instructions?" he asked the former major.

Roberts advanced slowly as John stood up. The older man backhanded John for his trouble. Doctor staggered into the wall, his gut wrenching from the vertigo. He sensed Roberts looming nearby but kept his eyes shut until the room stopped moving on him. The blond tasted copper in his mouth; he ran his tongue over his split lip. Damn. John had forgotten that goading his jailor was a Bad Idea. Must be the concussion making John stupid. Stupider.

"You watch your mouth, _elf doctor_," snarled Roberts. "I won't stand for insubordination. You just watch it."

John briefly and stupidly considered charging the brute, but one glance over at Emily, who fearfully cringed against the wall, changed his mind. Right. He'd have to toe the line for the children's sake. And anyway, the handcuffs might make fighting a bit difficult. The concussion wasn't going to help any either. John might be an idiot, but he was going to have to try to be smarter now.

"Yeah, Yes, sir," said John the Elf meekly. Pulling his lip into his mouth and worrying at the cut.

Roberts, nodded, appeased for now. "Well then. Fix Lisbeth, so we can move on," said the older man. Roberts leaned against the door jamb, his arms crossed tightly to his chest. His tic working overtime.

John kneeled awkwardly, since his right leg was acting up again. And what a surprise that was, thought the doctor.

He asked Emily the standard questions. At first she could barely mutter yes or no. He could see that she was frightened. He hoped that if he stayed low-keyed and calm, maybe she'd come to trust him a bit. One way or another, she gradually relaxed a bit and began to answer the quiet, confident doctor wearing the weird outfit. She was a bright girl and could answer a lot of John's questions. John had not heard anything about the girls having medical conditions during the briefings, but it was good to hear from Emily that her little sister only saw doctors for checkups and the usual childhood mishaps.

Apparently, Lisbeth had come down with sore throat and fever this morning. Oh, and she had a runny nose and coughed a bit too. Lisbeth was drinking juice and fruit punch all day. Lately, Lisbeth had been whinging and had tried to steal Emily's crayons. John smiled at that. It brought back memories of him and Harry. Of course, John had never whinged. Nope, not even as a child...

Doctor Watson also noticed that she was considering her answers very carefully. No doubt she knew not to antagonize Roberts, which made her smarter than John Watson, thought John ruefully.

Emily watched John suspiciously, as he began examining her five-year old sister, who was only pretending to sleep. Poor little possum, thought John. The tiny blond was flushed and hot with fever. Her nose was very stuffed up but her breathing seemed easy.

He glanced at Emily, careful not to stare at her. She eyed her father oddly. The man made her skittish. Well, he made John skittish too. Still, not much of a father/daughter relationship here. John had to wonder if Emily even knew who Roberts was.

John muttered that he needed to listen to Lisbeth's chest. No one said a word. Oh my God, this has to be one of the most awkward…"Look," said John glaring at his captor. "I really need equipment. I need to check her ears. I need a stethoscope to listen to her lungs. We should run x-rays. She needs to the A and E. "

"No." growled Roberts, his ground glass voice grating on John's nerves.

"Look, I can't possibly…"

"No A and E. Do your job or I'll go find another doctor who will," growled the madman who was having a lucid moment. "You are only needed here as long as you can help Lisbeth."

Okay, that was very possibly a death threat. And John sure as hell didn't want to drag some other poor sod into this debacle.

Still, he really needed his equipment and an x-ray really might be indicated. He tried to _reason politely_ with the crazy man. "Sir, I need equipment. I can't just wave my hands like some shaman and…" a small hand tugged at his elbow.

JOhn turned to Emily. She drew back a bit in fear and then shook her head at him, warning him to stop.

Emily seemed to be afraid of Doctor John Watson too. Which made John wonder just how bad he looked. Obviously, he still had blood on his face and clothes. He probably had a black eye and other bruising. Plus he was a stranger brought in by her kidnapper. He tried to smile reassuringly at her, but her eyes were glued warily on her father.

Oh God, thought John, with a sinking feeling. What if Roberts had been hitting the girls too? John really wanted to go for the bastard. Instead, he followed the ten-year old's advice left their captor alone.

* * *

The exam was very unsatisfactory since John could only use his bound hands, his eyes (which were not at their best), and his ears (well his right ear mainly, the left was a bit on the fritz just now). Lisbeth was feverish and understandably wobbly when they 'woke her up'. He looked at her throat using an inadequate pocket torch and felt her neck and tummy. He listened to Lisbeth's lungs by pressing his ear to her chest like a medieval doctor. Happily, he did not hear any wheezing or other unwanted sounds. She wasn't even coughing all that much.

With Emily's help, John got Lisbeth to take her paracetamol (the correct dose, one and a half teaspoons, thank you very much). Doctor Watson pointedly marked down the time, dose and her vitals using a purple crayon and the drawing paper. Then they got her to drink some apple juice from a stash in the red cooler. The sick five year old quickly curled back up against her sister.

John turned around painfully. He'd been kneeling on the hard floor for quite some time and was now very stiff. On the plus side, turning did not make him dizzy.

He prepared to give his report to the major, who was tapping his foot and nervously picking at his arm. Doctor Watson narrowed his eyes. He strongly suspected that the major was itching for a hit.

John also suspected that the sick little girl had nothing more serious than a cold. However, Doctor John Watson would no longer be needed, if he told the major the truth. John was not particularly interested in dying at the hands of drug addled manic. John really didn't want to leave these girls alone with that maniac either. John was not a good liar, but, like many a soldier, he had extensive experience in embellishing his reports to present himself in the best light possible.

"So…well, Lisbeth is clearly suffering from rhinopharyngitis with secondary lymphadeopathy and bilateral tonsilar inflammation probably caused by acute rhinoviral or adenoviral infection," the doctor was gratified by Roberts widening eyes. "...but I cannot rule out bronchitis or pneumonia or secondary septicemia, although I admit the latter is unlikely," said John embellishing for all he was worth. "I'd still like to take her to an A and E for x-rays, cultures, and of course a damned good examination…"

"No. No A and E," said the former major shaking his head. "They'll just take their mother's side. I can't risk it. I'm not stupid, Doctor Elf. I know you can give her an antibiotic or something."

"But I don't know for sure about her lungs without an x-ray. Hel…Heck, I don't even have a stethoscope," snapped John. "I don't know exactly what I'd be treating anyway. And it's not like I have any antibiotics on me…"

"No problemo, Doctor Elf. You tell me what medicines she needs and I'll get 'em. I know where to go for medicine," said Roberts eagerly.

I just bet you do, thought John angrily. That bastard is just going to go get himself 'medicine'. Why Roberts was even pretending to want to get medicine for Emily was beyond him.

"Look," said Doctor Watson, trying to explain. "I cannot prescribe medication with out a proper exam and tests. I am a doctor," said John, standing up and waving his bound hands around. "not a damned magician. We need to take Lisbeth to the A and E." Oops, wrong answer.

Roberts grabbed the doctor by his wrists and pulled him out into the main room, flinging John into the wall. John protected his head at the expense of his bad shoulder. He stifled a groan. At least Roberts had the decency to slam the door shut so that Emily didn't have to witness any more violence. John clung to the wall like a barnacle until he felt steadier.

"I warned you about insubordination, _Elf_," said Roberts slapping John a couple of times for emphasis. "Now are you going to write the prescriptions, or do I hav'ta get the new doctor?"

"Sir, may I _respectfully_ point out that as it is a holiday and it's the middle of the night, the pharmacies will be closed?" said John, even though he knew that reason and logic were not Roberts strong suits.

"I can get medicine," said Roberts, making fists nervously. "You don't have to worry about how I'm going to do it."

"Fine," said John holding up his cuffed hands to appease the major. "Fine. I think it's too soon to be pushing antibiotics…for now." John pursed his lips in concentration. "Maybe you could get some children's ibuprofen and something for…"

"Write it down, whatever Lisbeth needs, just write it down," said Roberts, wiping his mouth with his fist.

John wrote out a list. The former major looked at the list as if John had written it in Arabic. Then the man stuffed a grubby watch cap on his head. The note was shoved into a pocket of his dirty, combat fatigues.

"I won't be gone for long, Doc," said Roberts. "I have contacts and they can get this crap for me. I need some medicine myself."

Ohhh, I thought as much, thought the elf doctor. He's a damned addict.

"Tell you what," continued the former major, as if he were granting John a great privilege. "I'm going to leave you in with the girls, in case Lisbeth needs something."

John was dragged back to the little room; his arms pulled up so high that his feet barely scraped the floor. "You know, I can walk…Sir." John added the sir quickly, so that Roberts wouldn't slug him again.

Roberts didn't answer; he just released John's right wrist from the restraint. Then he hooked the free end of the cuff to the rusted metal pipe that led down to the radiator.

"I don't see how I help Lisbeth when I'm chained up…" complained John, shaking his left wrist which was bound to the pipe.

Roberts rolled his eyes looking rabid. Remembering the little girl who was watching, John subsided quietly. Inside he seethed.

The major turned to Emily who sat protectively in front of her sleeping sister. "Give your father a goodbye kiss, Emily," he ordered harshly, before bending down.

Emily's eyes widened, and then she stood up bravely and leaned forward gingerly. She placed a kiss on his stubbled cheek.

John and Emily both stood quietly as the door was locked and bolted and then bolted again. Then they heard the main door to the flat slam shut.

Pursing his lips, John massaged his free wrist and wondered how the hell Sherlock was going to find him. If he could find him. Better not to count on a rescue, yeah?

John decided to free himself; shouldn't be too hard, right? Then he'd somehow figure a way out of the room to escape with the Berry children. He began sawing at the pipe with the cuff. Surely he could wear down the pipe and free his arm.

It was lucky that John was a former army officer and used to harsh conditions. This incarceration with small children didn't faze John at all. He didn't even notice his injuries. John sighed with disgust. He wasn't even very good at lying to himself.

It was a shame that he was about to miss his first Christmas with Sherlock since Sherlock's… absence. Not to mention their first Christmas as boyfriends. John had had a little fantasy of spending Christmas with his secret new boyfriend. Sitting in front of the fireplace. Maybe some snogging under the mistletoe. Exchanging gifts...

Well, I _am_ an idiot. As if Sherlock Holmes would have celebrated Christmas with John.

Sherlock despised Christmas, and he wouldn't have celebrated with John even if he wasn't on a case, which he most certainly is. And Sherlock would have refused to even eat the food that was going to make for him, since he was still on that case. Although now the case was technically solved. Regrettably, John Watson was the only one who knew that the case was solved.

Huh, just think, I accidentally solved the case by getting myself kidnapped, thought John, as he scrapped at the pipe.

I wonder if I can make everyone (Sherlock) think that I let myself be kidnapped on purpose? No, of course not. The scraping of the metal was loud and harsh. I wonder if Sherlock has even noticed I'm gone? Probably not. Mary will have noticed that I'm in trouble surely and she'll have called for help, right? Maybe...maybe not.

Damn. I am in deep shite. He put more energy into sawing through the rusty, and very hard pipe,

Then he glanced at Emily who was guarding her sister. Dammit. These poor kids are missing Christmas. They should be home with their folks. They should be waiting for Father Christmas and presents and treats. They shouldn't be locked up in some druggie's crappy flat with a scruffy, old, confirmed bachelor, army doctor elf, who was helplessly handcuffed to a pipe.

This is the worst Christmas ever, thought John darkly. This is a damned nightmare. He couldn't think of a thing to say the little girls, so he concentrated on escape. He sawed away at the pipe and only occasionally looked over at his little cellmates.

**A/N** Sorry for the lousy editing. As stated earlier, this is a bit of a rush job.

Thank you to DrGregor, Quiet Time, Samuele8688 and anyrei1 for your lovely reviews. I felt as though Christmas came early when I read your them.

**Thank you for reading and Merry Christmas! **

**Disclaimer** I do not own any SHERLOCK-IAN rights.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N **Due to my insane desire to post as much as possible before Christmas (for no very good reason either), the editing of this fic has suffered. Please blame the Christmas elves and not me. Why you ask? Because the Christmas elves should at least proofread and edit this fluff. In their conspicuous absence, 'I must muddle through somehow...'

Still, 'have yourself a Merry Little Christmas now.'*

note there is a fairly important notice at the end of the chapter

I am taking the liberty of announcing that **anyrei1** drew a fantastic picture of **Sherlock and his little elf** see it at **anyrei1/tumblr .** I am just so thrilled, please go look at the drawing. It the best Christmas Present.

*****Chapter the Third*****

Sherlock succeeded in driving Mary Morstan away with a surprisingly expedient tactic. He told her the truth. The third time she gushed over John Watson's many charms, Sherlock had leaned over and informed her that John had declared his love for the consulting detective. Sherlock in fact reciprocated the sentiment. As far as Sherlock was concerned, John belonged to him and Sherlock did not appreciate any interlopers. It was not Sherlock's fault if Mary took that as a threat.

Sherlock had not succeeded in driving away Donovan or Anderson. Until his return, Lestrade had ordered Donovan to remain at all times within five feet of the consulting detective. Lestrade had actually stipulated the five-foot radius. Anderson, in a surprising fit of solidarity, appeared to feel duty bound to share the onerous duty with the Sergeant. Besides, Anderson was waiting for Sherlock's permission to gather evidence.

Anderson and Donovan stood five feet back and glared at the consulting detective after getting screamed at for supposedly contaminating evidence. They exchanged knowing glances and a loudly whispered conversation as they watched the consulting detective examine a drop of blood. There were several more drops of blood trailing out of the alley.

"…and so my mother is baking this huge Christmas ham. She'll 'ave started it tonight…"

"I sincerely doubt that Anderson cares anymore about your mother's Christmas ham than I do," said Sherlock. "Can we table all talk of holly and holiday cheer for the duration of…"

"Don't you celebrate Christmas at all?" asked Donovan.

"Don't be absurd. It's just another day in the calendar," said Sherlock.

"Not even with your friend? Not even with John Watson?" asked the sergeant.

"John Watson understands that I regard Christmas as a tawdry excuse to trot out stale, overused sentiments and spend large amounts of money on rubbish that nobody wants," said the consulting detective, rubbing his hands together.

The consulting detective rose from his crouch, speaking mostly to himself, "John came around the corner here, obviously not anticipating that his quarry would turn and fight." Which validates my position that John Watson should never leave the flat without me, thought Sherlock to himself. "He was brought down here, where the suspected kidnapper…"

"Wait, how do you know it was the kidnapper?" asked Anderson, who was finally allowed to collect samples of the blood,

"…who was waiting in ambush for John, who should have known better. There was only a brief scuffle, which John lost, which confirms that he was taken by surprise. Had it not been for the ambush, I am certain that John Watson would have bested his opponent. The kidnapper carried John down this lane; you can see his boot prints are now very deep, from carrying the extra weight of the unconscious doctor. The prints lead this way, as do the drops of blood, behind the old bakery," muttered Sherlock who was moving rapidly. They could be close to finding John. If only they could find John uninjured.

"How d'ya know Doctor Watson was unconscious. How d'ya know 'e wasn't already d…" Sergeant Donovan stopped abruptly, biting her tongue. She truly hadn't meant to be so insensitive. Even Anderson glared at her.

"Of course he was unconscious! He was just knocked out!" snarled Sherlock. "He was probably stunned. Just stunned," muttered the consulting detective, uncharacteristically repeating himself. John was probably just stunned. John would be just fine. He had to be just fine. Donovan was an idiot.

Only last week, had John and Sherlock expanded their relationship to include an official date and snogging. Further developments had been right around the corner. Sherlock had been days, hours even of claiming his blogger once and for all.

The thought of loosing that was intolerable. Sherlock would recover his blogger, and then never let John leave his sight. And he was surely getting close. The trail would lead to one of these doorways

The trail led back to a small, deserted street only a couple blocks away from that wretched shelter. The pavement was wet, but there was no snow or mud to hold any footprints. The blood drops had vanished in the alleyway. Rain washed away any traced of evidence. Naturally, none of Mycroft's cameras were present.

The trail had come to a dead-end. John was not close to being found at all.

"No. No. NO!" shouted Sherlock at the dark, empty buildings. He paused, pressing his lips together, trying to regain control. He blew a huge cloud of steam from his flared nostrils and breathed in again. Lestrade hurried from his car to intervene, but fortunately Sherlock had restrained himself.

"John is by no means a large man, but he is heavy enough if you have to carry him very far," said the consulting detective, oblivious to the raised brows of the Yarders. "Therefore he must be nearby. We must begin a systematic search of all nearby buildings. We must check nearby CCTV cameras. The kidnapper…"

"You mean the Berry kidnapper?" asked Sally Donovan.

"Of course the Berry kidnapper?" replied Sherlock.

"You meant the Berry kidnapper, kidnapped Doctor Watson?" asked Anderson, sealing up his box of samples.

'Obviously," snapped Sherlock. "Use your tiny, little brains! Even John wouldn't be so foolish as to risk his life unless someone else's life was in danger. So, then we ask who? Whose life is in danger? There were no threats issued at that stupid party. But the _Berry_ kidnapping? The kidnapping of two _innocent children_? We _know_ that this kidnapping has been at the forefront of John's mind. And unlike some people, John does not turn his brain off just because he is in a foolish costume or because he is at a pointless party. No John has been thinking about that kidnapping over and over. So when John saw that man, he was able to instantly recognize something that told him that this man was our suspect. And of course, John never considered the danger but he instantly chased after the culprit. Had it been an innocent man they would not have run. Had it been some common criminal, they would have out run John or at the worst incapacitated him and left him in the alley. It has to have been the Berry kidnapper. Now stop wasting my time! Lestrade! The kidnapper may have been caught on camera if he left this street. You have to also watch for unusual vehicular traffic at around half six tonight."

"What kind of unusual traffic are we talking about here, Sherlock," asked Lestrade patiently.

"ANY KIND!" shouted the lanky detective. "Look at these streets! Have your brains gone on Christmas Holiday? This is a rundown business district: shoddy offices, warehouses, half the buildings are all but unoccupied. No one lives here; at least no one lives here legally. _Any _traffic around here on Christmas Eve is suspicious. We need to canvas the squatters and homeless who may have witnessed something."

"Oi! Quiet! I have Moira on the phone," said Donovan. "She played the video for the Berry's…Oh my God. Mrs. Berry…" Donovan raised her head, appraising the consulting criminal again. "The man Watson was chasing is the girls' father. Their biological father. Major John Roberts, who supposedly died in Afghanistan almost five years ago. She said he's hard to recognize at first, 'cause he's lost a lot of weight and his hair has gone all over grey. But she's sure it's him."

"Ohhh. Oh of course. Of course," said Sherlock, his hands dancing as the pieces fell into place. "John said that he had met the biological father of the Berry girls. They served together briefly. Of course, John recognized him and gave chase without thinking of the risk, that idiot."

"But how can it be Roberts if he's dead!" protested Anderson foolishly.

"Of course he isn't dead. Just shut up Anderson. You're wasting all the oxygen for no reason," said Sherlock scathingly, "Roberts has been recognized by his ex-wife who left him when she was still carrying his second daughter. He must have deserted; perhaps he found some lucrative business ventures in Afghanistan. For some reason he's decided now, that he wants to reclaim his daughters. I would imagine it is more revenge against his wife than true affection for his offspring. Why else wait for five years? This all fits now. Statistically, most kidnappings are done by relatives and not by strangers. And after the kidnapping, he's remained in London. That is clever. Is it clever? Why is it clever? I must organize my colleagues to aid in the search. They must be nearby, with in several blocks at least. Lestrade I shall return in no more than seventeen minutes. I expect the search of these buildings to be underway by then."

"Hold it Sherlock," said Lestrade. First of all, we'll be needing warrants." Sherlock tsk'd loudly. "Secondly, we have limited personnel"

"What? Why?" demanded the consulting detective.

"You said it yourself, it's Christmas," said Lestrade. "I cannot call in off duty staff on Christmas. Not without firm evidence…"

"Who cares if it's Christmas?" said Sherlock astonished. "It's only another day of the year! John's life may very well be at stake. And_ your_ case, Lestrade. The kidnapping, don't you want to solve it? They're tied together, Lestrade. Solve the one and you'll solve the other," said Sherlock persuasively.

"Don't be such an arse, Sherlock," said the irritated detective inspector. "There are lots of us volunteering to search for John. And working on the Berry case even though it's Christmas. But until I have a target, I am not forcing people away from their celebrations."

"Pah!" spat Sherlock. "So sitting around a dead tree and opening meaningless gifts that you secretly despise and drinking eggnog is more important than a man's life. I am glad that I have always refused to participate in such a gratuitous excess of sentimental drivel."

"John didn't think like that…"

"John doesn't expect stupid pointless presents not does he put his eggnog above someone else's safety. As he demonstrated this evening."

"Yeah. John doesn't expect gifts you great git; he gives them," said the detective inspector. "I don't think you know John as well as you think you do, Sherlock Holmes. No. No. This time, you just shut it! I will get the warrants. And I will call in the canine unit. And I will ask for volunteers, AFTER I've gotten the warrants. AND you are not going anywhere with out either myself or Sergeant Donovan accompanying you."

Sherlock glared daggers at the older man.

Alright then, Donovan d'you want to wake up the judge on Christmas morning or d'you want to chase this git around London,"

Sally Donovan rolled her eyes. Both choices were between awful and terrible. "Oh toss a coin," she said with thinly veiled disgust.

"And if you take one more step with out one of us, Sherlock," ground out DI Lestrade. "I promise you I will hand cuff you, and I'll notify the British Government."

Sherlock definitely growled. Lestrade also growled when he lost the coin toss and had to accompany the World's Only Consulting Detective.

* * *

It was after 9am Christmas morning when the girls finally fell asleep in the cold, dingy room that was their prison cell. John was miserably cold and shivered constantly. The ex-army doctor sat on the food cooler, his left arm uncomfortably suspended over his head hanging from the cuffs. This stressed his bad shoulder mercilessly. John gave the cuffs an angry tug, which reopened a sore on his wrist, which started oozing blood, which angered John even more.

Roberts had been gone for a long time. Surely the man had left sometime between 1 and 2 am. Hadn't he? John hadn't checked his watch at the time but Lisbeth got her medicine at 0030 hours, so it was sometime after that. Maybe that bastard had found his 'medicine' and was off getting high. John wondered if Roberts had abandoned them to starve to death.

Well, this was John's opportunity to escape. If he could just get the damn cuffs off. Instead of feeling gung-ho and ready to fight, John was attacked by a wave of homesickness and something that felt very like despair. The blond leaned his head against the wall. He was overwhelmed, by longing for his consulting detective and his desire for a good, hot cuppa. Honestly, John would settle for any tea at this point, even vending-machine tea, even tea with sugar, even American vending-machine tea with sugar. Just so long as it was hot! That went for the consulting detective too. John felt a trace of a smile on his chapped lips.

Too bad the bastard Roberts hadn't left them any lip balm or tea. John would have the former major charged with crimes against humanity for those oversights.

Well, John could not allow himself to falter now. He was responsible for two young children. Having had his brief sit-down, John stood back up so that he could reach his wrist. Once more unto the breach dear friends! He poked at the lock with the wire scavenged from one of Emily's barrettes.

Although this had so far proved ineffective, it was better than sawing at the damned pipe, which had been a complete failure. John twisted the wire anticlockwise this time, and he wondered why he hadn't thought of trying to pick the lock in the first place. He decided to blame it on a mild concussion or mild hypothermia or both.

It was half eleven when, much to John's surprise, the cuffs opened with a snap. He couldn't refrain from a shuffled, fist pumping, happy dance. Sherlock would be so impressed. Or not.

No, Sherlock would sneer because it took John so long to unlock the ruddy things. Well, Sherlock was a bloody genius. No doubt he would have freed himself in a few minutes, without mussing his finely tailored suit. John was not a genius and took hours to free himself while bleeding all over his tawdry, ragged Christmas elf costume.

Exhausted but still immensely pleased with himself. John turned to the door. It was heavy, and made of metal with hinges on the far side of the door. He futilely tried kicking it down. This hurt his leg and briefly woke Emily up, but she quickly fell back asleep since it was only the strange little doctor elf making noise again.

Clearly, the door wasn't going to be broken down. He chose to try picking the door's lock, but after an hour's anxious work, he was completely unsuccessful. Plus there had been at least two sturdy bolts on the other side of the door.

John spent a few minutes mentally cursing Roberts, which made the doctor feel marginally better.

John turned to the window. It was barricaded on the inside with formidable metal bars. A lot of the glass was missing, but the window had been boarded up from the outside. A few cracks revealed pale daylight and let in the cold, damp air.

John found a badly corroded section of the barricade and began trying to work it free. When that didn't work, John returned to the pipes. With both hands free, John was finally able to break off a twenty inch long piece of copper pipe that connected with the radiator along the floor.

The bedraggled elf was disappointed that there was no water in the system. As the hours past without the return of Major Roberts, John was beginning to think in terms of survival.

The girls awoke to find their personal elf bashing out the wood covering the window. Johnny Elf, as they now called him, stopped long enough to insist that Lisbeth take some paracetamol, even though she seemed cool. Then he had them use the make shift loo (coffee cans in the red cooler), which was now hidden behind a Disney Princess bed sheet. John could be a bit more resourceful when he had both hands available. Regrettably, he wasn't resourceful enough to break out of this bloody room.

Doctor Watson also insisted that Emily and her sister wash their hands with the sanitizer and their faces, necks and arms with a flannel (Actually a torn off piece of bed sheet that was moistened by tying it to John's pipe and sticking it out in the drizzle). This was followed by hair combing and picking up the room followed in short order. He even insisted on making the 'beds'.

Then the girls were allowed a light snack and a drink. John held off on eating or drinking anything himself, because he was now worried that they might be stuck in here for days. In other words, he had begun rationing.

The girls were instructed to color, read books or play cards while Johnny Elf worked at the window. He was able to punch out a good bit of the wood, which had covered the window. He only cut himself on the broken glass a little. One finger needed binding with toilet paper and another piece of torn sheet.

John stood on the ice chest. The view from the window was not encouraging.

Dusk hung over this deserted section of London. At the end of the street John saw the rubble from a demolished building. The building across the way may have once been a factory but looked quite abandoned

John saw a couple of teens weaving and staggering about. They seemed to be arguing. They were the only people he'd seen all day, but he suddenly wasn't sure if he wanted to attract their attention. What if they were urban predators? It would be different if it had just been him and not the girls at risk. But now…

Hell, Captain Watson was armed with a copper pipe. It was a freakin' murder weapon in Cluedo, wasn't it? He threw caution to the wind and began shouting for help. The two youths either didn't hear or didn't care.

"Damn!" shouted John in frustration, as he lost sight of the young men. "Damn, damn, damn!" He turned to see two wide-eyed, open-mouthed girls. "Um…" said John.

"Damn," said Lisbeth.

John smacked his face. He would have to watch his language. "Lisbeth, I was a very naughty… elf. I should not have said that word. I would like you not to say that word either," said John. "Please?"

The girls looked at him, and he became nervous. He fiddled with the ragged sleeves of his green tunic.

"I'm bored," said Emily.

"I'm bored," echoed Lisbeth.

John hated those words. Thanks to his flat mate, John Watson instinctively cringed when he heard the words 'I'M bored".

Hopefully the girls would be different. They were really quite sweet, and they had followed orders quite satisfactorily so far. Surely they would be less difficult to deal with than a bored consulting detective.

But no, no they were just as difficult as a consulting detective and there were two of them.

John suggested that they color some more. That was shot down in flames. John almost checked himself for burns. He suggested that Emily read to Lisbeth. The pouting began in full force. John felt the first frisson of fear.

Pouting at Baker Street was often followed by ill-tempered sulking and then by the dreaded temper tantrum.

John suggested that they build a fort out of the pallets and blankets. This bought him less than thirty minutes, during which time he tried to pick the lock on the door again.

"I want the cooler in my fort!" shrieked Lisbeth, whose sore throat had resolved leaving the usual runny nose and cough.

"I'm oldest; I get the blue cooler," announced Emily, pulling rank. "You can have the red one."

"That's the peepee one!" shrilled Lisbeth. Her voice bored into John's brain like a parasitic alien. John sighed.

"Johnny, Johnny she won't share!" shrieked Lisbeth.

"Right!" snapped Captain John Watson RAMC. "Stand down!"

The sweet little girls froze. They were not sure what he meant exactly, but they were quite certain that he meant business.

"Um, right! Stand down means stop," said John. "So, stop. Yes, well, that's enough of that. Lets set the beds in order."

"They're not real beds," said Emily, who was a stickler for precision.

"No. No they are not real beds, Em, but we have to make do," said John.

"Why?" asked Lisbeth.

"Be-cause…I'm the Captain, and… I outrank you both?" said John, rubbing his jaw. He wasn't acting parent for even a full day, and already he had to resort to 'because I said so'. It was a bit disheartening to have turned into his parents so quickly.

Since it was getting very dark in the room, John lit the kerosene lantern but set it on the milk crate to provide some heat as well.

John and the girls wrote SOS notes on their drawing paper and he flung those out the window. On each sheet, John wrote out his and the girls' names plus the names and phone numbers of Greg Lestrade and Sherlock Holmes. He also offered hefty rewards (surely Mycroft would help him pay off any reward, wouldn't he?)

If nothing else, perhaps the litter would attract a constable, and they could all be rescued when the PC wrote John a ticket. Anyway, John fancied that he was killing two birds with one stone right now. The troops were entertained and he was doing something to affect their escape, sort of.

Then they wrote some more SOS notes and folded those into paper airplanes. First they flew the planes around the room. Then they had a contest to see whose airplane flew the farthest; finally, they shot the planes out the window. Naturally, the girls had to throw their own planes out the window themselves. John sat them on his good shoulder and let each them look out the window, check to see if they could pull the bars off the window and then fly their planes out into the dark. Lisbeth almost cut herself by touching the glass on purpose. Emily noticed the neither street lamp worked and briefly looked concerned.

John plugged the last window opening with a large, rather hideous pink elephant. John unwisely mentioned that the elephant would be mooning any passers-by. This led to an extended round of inappropriate bathroom humor. John was sleep deprived and didn't much care. Besides shrill shrieks of laughter were far better than shrill shrieks of tears.

John told them more (highly edited) stories about the World's Greatest Detective. Emily showed John and Lisbeth how to fold fortune-tellers. John was oddly pleased with his fortune-teller. As a small boy, he had not been very good at making these, but now he did very well. John decorated his with red and green for Christmas. Emily and Lisbeth decorated theirs red and green too.

They spent an inordinate amount of time telling each other's fortunes. John was going to be fabulously rich, marry a tall, dark, handsome stranger (this pleased John to no end) and he was going to have seven children, all girls (this quite worried him). Lisbeth was going to be fabulously rich, become an army doctor and marry a handsome prince who would buy her lots of ponies. Emily was going to join the army too but she was going into Special Forces as the World's Only Consulting Commando. Although her fortune-teller predicted marriage, Emily was going to be married to her work. She was not going to get married at all unless she met a nice little army elf, who would help her raise Scottish Fold cats.

As pouting once again reared its ugly head, John suggested they make a tree out of the fortune-tellers, and the straws from the juice boxes. They sang the few Christmas carols that John or Emily knew, mostly just the first verses.

Emily and Lisbeth sang Silent Night. They all sang Deck the Halls. John knew the first verse of Good King Wenceslas. They sang Jingle Bells straight. Then they sang The Batman Smells version. John made up We Wish You a _Berry_ Christmas to great applause. Together they rewrote lyrics to create Deck the halls with lots of Berrys fa la la la la, la la la la, Tis the season to meet Johnny fa la la etc. And so it came to pass, that the lyrics were strongly influenced by bathroom humor. It was decidedly inappropriate. However it kept the troops happy and John rejoiced.

Now the darlings were hungry, and they were tired of crackers and fruit and raisins and dried cereal. John allowed them a toaster pastry each and they all shared the last banana. John mostly ate the icky brown bits. The girls reluctantly ate some raisins and cereal. John told some war stories, highly edited. Unfortunately he accidentally told them about how he had a 'sleep over' with a couple of nurses once.

Then John insisted that he had to work breaking out the window bars. He settled the girls on a pallet and turned off the lamp to save fuel. They all sang while John chiseled at the bars with his all-purpose copper pipe.

"Jingle bells, Batman Smells, Robin laid an egg, Batmobile has lost its wheel and Joker got away…"

* * *

It was morning. John had been missing over twelve hours. But now there was a break in the case.

Sherlock held onto the dashboard of Lestrade's car, which drove at breakneck speed. Lights on, and sirens wailing a counterpoint to the tinny Christmas carols that the detective inspector insisted on playing. Roberts had possibly been spotted, exiting a known crack house, which was under observation by detective inspector Dimmock's team for a suspected manslaughter case coupled with drug trafficking.

Sherlock all but fell out of the car, before it came to a complete stop. He ran over to where a young rookie held the cuffed suspect by his arm. His older partner, a no-nonsense woman of indeterminate age, who was not fond of Sherlock, cautioned the suspect while frowning at the approaching consultant.

"Sherlock!" yelled Lestrade in warning. "Lemme do the talking, Sherlock." Lestrade smiled winsomely at the detectives. "Great collar…" he began.

"Oh do hurry up!" Sherlock cried out. "They were only doing their jobs for which they received adequate remuneration. Ask him where…"

"I know how to question a suspect Sherlock, now shut it," snapped Lestrade who had been patient all night, seeing that it was Sherlock's best friend and colleague who was officially listed as the victim of a suspected assault and kidnapping.

Lestrade's patience was not, however, infinite, and he had words with the consulting detective.

In the end, after the consulting detective deduced the suspects long-standing opium addiction, which had led to his desertion from the military and his faked death. This in turn led to his role as a mid level drug trafficker. Sherlock also deduced the major's long-standing impotence, which was no doubt caused by the drugs, which led to a brief scuffle. The suspect was taken to the yard, and Sherlock was only allowed to observe further questioning through the one-way window.

Roberts steadfastly denied everything with a mulish stupidity that had Sherlock vibrating with suppressed rage.

"How does he explain his sudden resurrection at the same time that his daughters go missing? How does he explain the children's medicine he had been carrying? How does he explain his face on the video?" demanded Sherlock.

"He claims it's for a friend who won't swallow pills, and he says the video isn't of him in the first place," said Lestrade. "In Roberts' defense, the coat he's wearing now isn't the same one worn by the suspect in the video taken by Prince's camera man.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically. He began to pace again. "Roberts changed his coat, probably because it has incriminating stains it, most likely John's blood. I may kill Roberts, slowly and painfully," announced the consulting detective.

"Sherlock! Don't say things like that. Not in public and especially not in front of Police Officers," whispered Lestrade urgently.

"How does he explain the barrette with a cat on it? The barrette that exactly matches the barrette that Elizabeth Berry was said to be wearing at the time of the abduction. Hmm?"

"Yeah, that's enough evidence for us to keep him in custody, at least for now," said Lestrade. "But he's still not talking."

Donovan and Anderson burst into the room. The forensics officer waved a plastic bag victoriously.

"We searched every bin on the street where that scumbag was picked up," said Anderson.

"And we found this note in the rubbish," said Donovan. The detective snatched the evidence bag containing the following list.

_One bottle of children's ibuprofen (get grape flavor if they have it, NOT orange medicine). One bottle of regular strength paracetamol. One bottle of Claritin redi- tabs, one box of ice lollys (not orange flavored). Tinned milk. Some sandwiches. Crisps. Cup of tea, no sugar(very hot). More hand sanitizer. Jammie Dodgers._

"It's John's handwriting," said Sherlock definitively. "His cramped writing shows that his was under stress and perhaps even in pain. The list is typical for him. It's rambling and contains pointless observations about taste preferences and it requests milk which is a dead give away. I have yet to see any shopping list written by John Watson that does not ask for milk. Besides, who else would request tea from their kidnapper?"

"We don't know that Watson is being held against his will," said Donovan, playing devil's advocate. "Or even that it was Roberts list."

"Obviously it was Roberts list," said Sherlock furiously. "He had the same analgesics and antihistamines on him, when he was picked up. He even had sandwiches, crisps and Jammy Dodgers. It's telling that Roberts got the orange flavored ibuprofen in spite of Doctor Watson's advice and that he did not bother to obtain John's tea or the ice lollys".

"Anderson, Donovan, good work," said Lestrade. "Anderson test that note for fingerprints immediately and analyze the stains."

"Blood stains, they'll be John's. His blood type is AB negative, of course," said Sherlock, who was attempting to kill the suspect with a death glare.

"Okay," said Lestrade, as Anderson all but skipped off. He was thrilled to have discovered evidence before the consulting detective for once. "Give me. Why AB negative _of course_?" asked the detective inspector.

"Because AB negative is very rare, and it's the universal donor," answered Sherlock. He looked at the zero-brain, blank looks on both Lestrade's and Donovan's faces. "Of course John would have the blood type that can help everyone else, yet when _he_ is in need of transfusion, he can only receive the rare AB negative type. It's been a problem more than once. It's classic John Watson."

"Sherlock that's ridiculous. John didn't choose his blood type," said Lestrade incredulously.

"I never said that he did," snapped the consulting detective. "Nevertheless, everything I said, is true."

"Now what?" asked Donovan.

"We wait for the fingerprints and analysis of the stains," said Lestrade.

Sherlock's phone rang. "It's only Molly Hooper," said the consulting detective with evident disappointment."

"Sherlock Holmes here," he said, stepping into the bright hallway. His eyes half closed in the light.

"Hi Sherlock. Merry Christmas!" said Molly brightly.

"What?" said the consulting detective incredulously.

"It's Christmas Sherlock. Merry Christmas!"

"Have you taken leave of your senses!" snapped Sherlock, who was beginning to show signs of strain from the loss of his blogger.

"Oh, um well," stuttered Molly. "Um, I'm looking for John really. He's not answering his phone and I know his clinic is closed today."

She was answered with silence.

"Um so, I need to know what he wants me to do with, um all these samples. Yeah," she squeaked. "So I guess he gave your present by now. Um, so I've been waiting for John to get the samples. But now I have to go to Christmas dinner, and um, John,… was supposed to meet me here at St. Bart's at 9?" said Molly uncomfortably.

"That's ridiculous. John never goes to St. Bart's unless it's an emergency," said Sherlock who was mystified and irritated in equal measure. "What samples are you blithering about?"

"Um. Well he collected… and I helped him collect some of these. um, skin, liver, brain, tooth and bone samples and um…"

"What? Why? Why would John Watson collect tissue samples. You are not making any sense."

"Well, I don't want to ruin the surprise."

"Molly Hooper! John Watson is missing, believed kidnapped now explain what is going on!" demanded Sherlock.

"Oh. Oh no," she squeaked. "I didn't know…When did he…Oh dear. What can I do to help, Sherlock?" she asked with compassion.

"Well, you could begin by telling me what the samples are for," said Sherlock. trying not to yell at one of his few friends.

"Um. They were for your research? Tracking traces of heavy metals and radioactive contamination in tissue samples? Um the one where you want to be able to determine where a person grew up or traveled or…"

"Yes. Yes I am familiar with my own research, Molly," said Sherlock much more quietly. "But what does it have to do with John?"

"It was supposed to be a surprise…

"Molly!" said the World's Only Consulting Detective.

"Well it's your Christmas Present from John!" said Molly with another squeak. "He left it all here so you wouldn't find it until the freezer was delivered, and that couldn't get to Baker Street until yesterday. Because of the snowstorm last week delaying all the deliveries. Well, he, he was going to come and get the samples today and then bring them back to Baker Street. And put them in the freezer. In the new lab. The one he's building."

"Sherlock? Sherlock? What exactly happened to John? Do the police know?" asked Molly who was beginning to sound tearful.

"Thank you Molly. Thank you for telling me," said a very subdued Sherlock. "John is temporarily missing. I have no doubt that I will be locating him shortly. And yes, the police are aware, in fact Detective Inspector Lestrade is standing in front of me with his concerned paternal look."

Lestrade rolled his eyes, muttering "Sherlock I don't have a concerned paternal look. And tell Molly Merry Christmas."

"Molly I need to talk with the detective inspector," said Sherlock Holmes quietly. "He said…"

"Yes, tell him Merry Christmas for me. And Sherlock, please let me know if I can help with, well… with tests or anything at all," said Molly. "And call me when you, when you find him?"

"Yes. Yes. Fine," said Sherlock disconnecting from Molly. "Well, Lestrade?"

"Anderson found John's and Roberts's fingerprints on the note. I am going to confront him with his desertion and the fingerprints," said Lestrade. "Um, are you okay Sherlock?"

"Me. I'm fine. I'm not the one missing Lestrade," Sherlock lied.

"Lestrade? What do you know about John…building a lab?" asked Sherlock.

Lestrade froze for a second. "Nothing. I have no idea what you're talking about. How could John build a lab, Sherlock?" Lestrade fled into the interrogation room.

Ten minutes later, the former army major asked for a solicitor. A fine tremor seemed to be increasing in his hands. Sherlock noted other early signs of withdrawal in the suspect, such as pallor and sweating. But the man wasn't talking, and none of this was actually bringing John home safely. His John, who had clearly planned to celebrate Christmas after all.

**A/N** *Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas by Blane and Martin

Clearly, this little fic will not be done by Christmas. On the plus side of the ledger, it is at least halfway complete. I think.

Anyway, hope everyone has a smashing good Christmas. I would be thrilled to hear from anyone who has some entertaining alternate Christmas lyrics. If they are not too lewd, John and the girls may try to sing them.

There was only one John in the last chapter? I wonder how many were in this one? LOL

**Thank you** for following, favoriting and reviewing, which are virtual stocking stuffers for me. Special virtual gingerbread men go out to DrGregor, mjuhlar, SamuleE8688 and anyrei1 for sending me festive holiday reviews.

**Disclaimer** I do not own anything SHERLOCK.

**Important Notice** added after an hour or so after my original up-date. There is a seven minute **SHERLOCK MINI EPISODE** on the internet that leads us into Season Three. YOU MUST WATCH IT. (Just google SHerlock mini episode) (Thank you to anyrei1 for alerting me to this tearjerker. I did cry. Both times that I watched it).

**BTW** Less than a month until Season 3 starts here in the States. Yeah! Some of you lucky ducks on the other side of the pond get to see it Jan 1! Double Yeah for you! Others aren't sure when they'll see it which is entirely UNFAIR! Boo! Hiss! BOO!

No matter what:

*******HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO ALL AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT!***** **

**Sendai :D**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N** **anyrei1 **has drawn fantastic picture based on this fic . Please Google anyrei1/tumblr to see this amazing artwork. (Spoiler alert- John is in his elf suit and Sherlock is comforting him. IT IS TOO CUTE!)

Note: I'll be Cloned for Christmas (sung to the tune of "I'll be Home for Christmas) by D M Goldstein 1988, was recommended by **DrGregor **in honor of John, JOhn and Johnny Elf.

Sorry again for the sloppy editing.

**Chapter the Fourth**

His voice was not the best, even on a good day. Now, John's voice was hoarse from stress and lack of sleep but mostly from singing Christmas carols, mostly fractured carols in fact. It seemed to John that they had been singing for hours, although that might be a slight exaggeration. Still, he had no choice, not if he wanted to keep up troop morale. The former army doctor had been teaching the troops, 'I'll be Cloned for Christmas'.

"What's a clone?" asked Emily, from her warm nest in the dark room. John was digging at the masonry. Using his handy, all-purpose copper pipe, he had finally freed one deeply sunk bolt; that only left five more.

"A clone is a genetic copy of an animal or person. Um, like in Star Wars?" suggested John. "Now do you want to learn it or not." He was a bit tired and stressed out. In other words, he was grumpy.

Silence meant assent, at least that's what Sherlock always said.

"O-kay," he said. "And a one (Emily insisted that he start songs with a count like Mrs. Gregor did in chorus.) and a two and a_…. I'll be Cloned for Christmas; there'll be three of me. One to work, and one to shop and one just for parties. Christmas Eve, I'm certain; I won't be alone. I'll be home for Christmas. Or else I'll send a clone_."

"I want to be a clone," said Lisbeth.

"Fine. You can be a clone when you grow up," said John, who would agree to almost anything right now, if it meant getting the girls to go to sleep.

"Clones hav'ta be made, and she wasn't made a clone. Lisbeth can't be a clone," said Emily. Privately, John thought Em was a bit bossy and overly insistent on following rules. Then again, John was a bit that way too...

"Can too! Johnny elf said that I could,"

"Can not."

"Can too".

"Right! Stand down! Stand down at once!" snapped Captain John Watson RAMC.

"But…"

"No. No more talking. We agreed that you would both go after the last song," said John in his sternest, albeit scratchy, captain's voice. "And that was the last song. Now close your eyes, and go to sleep."

"Can too," whispered Lisbeth.

"Can not," hissed Emily.

"Can…."

"Girls! I said stand down and I meant stand down! No talking. No whispering. No bickering. Nothing. Nada... Now. Go. To. Sleep." Ordered Captain Watson.

It was quiet for at least three minutes.

"I'm not tired," muttered Emily.

"Me neither," said Lisbeth.

"SHHHH!" said John, chipping forcefully at the cement. A shower of dust landed on his head, making him sneeze. At least the shemagh would keep the grit out of his hair. He jammed his knuckles into one of the rusty bars for the hundredth time and cursed softly.

"Lisbeth's hogging the blankets," said Emily.

"Am not. Anyway you took both pildow's," said Lisbeth.

"Girl's, shhh! It's bedtime," said the captain.

It was quiet. John heard only the sound of his pipe, chipping at the masonry. He paused and heard some furtive whispers. He chose to ignore them. He resumed digging at the second bolt, which was sunk at the top of the frame.

John was not a tall man. Even perched on top of the cooler, John had trouble reaching the upper edge of the window frame. The reach was awkward and it hurt his back.

"Em'ly pinched me!" squealed Lisbeth, startling John so that he almost fell.

"Damn!" said John.

"Damn!" agreed Emily. "Lisbeth keeps kicking me and stealing the blankets,"

Ignoring his limp, John strode forward and brushed the cement dust off of his shemagh. Captain Watson called it a shemagh even though it was a scrap torn off of Disney princess bed sheet. The point was; it kept his head warm in the freezing room, and it kept the dust out of his hair.

"That's it!" he snapped. "Emily, you have to sleep in your own bed," ordered Captain Watson.

"This _is _my bed," protested Emily petulantly. She reminded John of a certain consulting detective.

"Lisbeth, you need to move then," ordered the former army officer.

Lisbeth wailed in despair, her desperate sobs rent the room. Emily started sniffling sadly too.

The ex-captain covered his face with his hand and held his breath to a count of ten. Then he knelt awkwardly and was bowled over, when Lisbeth launched herself at him. He held the grizzling little girl close. He felt like crying too.

Clearly, John would not be working at the window bars for a while.

* * *

Lisbeth was finally settled on her own pallet, but she still clutched Johnny elf's hand. Both girls sniffed pitifully, from time to time. John, who had been kneeling, decided to turn and sit more comfortably. His much-abused right leg gave out and he tipped over, ignominiously hitting the floor.

"Damn my leg!" he muttered.

"Damn," echoed two high-pitched voices. He was fairly certain that they were giggling. Dear God, weren't they crying, just moments ago? They were playing Johnny the elf for fool, he decided. They were worse than his boyfriend. And just like at Baker Street, John was going to let himself be shamelessly scammed, because, God help him, he was smitten.

"I'm wake," said Lisbeth.

"Me too," said Emily.

"Try. Try to sleep," said John, hoping it didn't sound like he was begging or anything.

"What's genetic copy?" asked Emily.

"It's when a baby is made using cells from a donor," said Doctor Watson wearily.

"What's cells," asked Lisbeth.

"It's the tiny pieces that make up our bodies," said the Doctor.

"I don' want nobody taking any of my cells," said Lisbeth, sounding worried.

"Nope. No one will take any cells from anyone," said Captain Watson. "I will stand guard."

"Am I a clone?" asked Lisbeth

"Nope," said Doctor Watson. "No, you were born to your mum and da…"

"Not our da," corrected Emily. "Our mum was married to Major; they made us. Mum said so. Da came later and 'dopted us."

"Fine. That's just fine," agreed John. He felt his body sinking into to a cramped, uncomfortable slumber. Still, any sleep seemed like a good idea.

"How did Mum and Major make us?" asked Lisbeth.

John woke up with a start. "You'll have to ask your mum when you get home," he said firmly.

"I think it's all because of sex," said Emily. "My friend Becca said…"

"Right. If we can't sleep, I'll turn on the light," said John, quickly changing the subject. "Perhaps we shall play some games until you are tired enough to sleep."

Shoulders sagging a bit, Johnny Elf limped over to the kerosene lantern and re-lit it. He held his cold hands over the burgeoning heat. "Right, since you two cannot sleep, we will play a game. How about I SPY."

The little devils dressed in pink jimjams and hoodies bounced up eagerly. Their eyes were clear, bright and tear free. Right, I'm an idiot, thought the former soldier, who had once again fallen for women's tears.

"Blow your nose, Lisbeth," said John, handing the preschooler a handful of tissues. He carefully lowered his sore body down on the end of her pallet, and he leaned against the wall with a tired sigh. "Okay, I Spy something… red."

"You didn't say it right, you should say I spy with my little eye, something red," said Emily authoritatively, as she pointed at her eye. "And you hav'ta point at your eye when you say it. And it's the potty cooler, which is grotty."

"It was 'sposed to be my guess furst, 'cause I'm littlest. Em'ly stole my turn!" whined Lisbeth.

John wanted to whine too. Everything on John was battered and sore. Even his hair hurt. He was cold, tired, hungry and thirsty and worried as hell for his small charges. And they were soooo demanding, he whinged internally.

So yes, John felt like a putting on a really good strop. But John Watson was an army officer, a leader of men and small girls. He was here to rise above it all…somehow.

John said, "I spy _with my eye_…"

"With my_ little_ eye," corrected Emily.

"...w_ith my__ little__ eye_," intoned John stoically. Then he said "Umph!" when he suddenly had a lap full of Lisbeth.

"Something pink, and Em, it is Lisbeth's turn," said John, raising his brow in warning before Emily interrupted.

Regrettably, half the objects in the room were pink. Major Roberts had made an effort to provide his kidnapped daughters with what he supposed were little girl furnishings, which had meant in his mind, pink. Light pink, baby pink, purple-pink, piggy pink, hot pink, Pink Lady Pink…

Needless to say, Lisbeth could not guess John's I Spy. Her face grew pinched and wobbly. Johnny elf gave up. He pretended that she had correctly guessed her pink jacket a couple of guesses ago.

Lisbeth clapped her hands with glee and bounced up and down sending sharp pains into John's right leg. Emily glowered darkly, muttering about cheaters.

It was all great fun for about ten minutes; then Lisbeth began whinging in earnest, because Emily solved ISpy's faster than Lisbeth. Besides, Lisbeth wanted her mummy, a 'girled' cheese sandwich, with the crusts cut off, and her pet cat, Cocoa. Oh, and she was BORED!

Emily, not to be out done, remembered that it was almost Christmas, and what if Father Christmas couldn't find them, and why didn't Father Christmas come and get John the Elf, and by the way, what ever happened to that World's Greatest Detective? Oh, and she was more bored than Lisbeth 'cause she was older, _and_ she was tired of Lisbeth's whinging. She stuck her tongue out at her sister.

Lisbeth produced real tears to go with her sulk, thereby surpassing in magnitude any of Sherlock's previous strops.

John did not have the heart to tell the girls that Christmas Day was almost over. And so much for Father Christmas, opening presents and dinner with their mum and da. Hell, so much for John's own Christmas dinner plans and the presents he had arranged for Sherlock. John sighed and pouted, as the five year old clung to him like a limpet. He rubbed her back instinctively, as she grizzled, and he felt very sorry for her, Emily and himself. He might have sniffed just once.

John indulged in self-pity for several minutes. It was getting harder and harder to rouse himself but...

Right! It was time to rally the troops yet again. The ex-army doctor thought back to his long, dull shifts on quiet nights in hospital or while serving in Afghanistan. Most of his recreational activities were either too dull for children- such as sleeping, working out, reading medical journals, especially sleeping… or they were downright inappropriate such as drinking, gambling, smoking (Sherlock never had to know about that former vice) and sex (well his other call sign _was_ 3C-for Three Continents) (Sherlock didn't have to know about that either).

John stewed in silence. Maybe Lisbeth was falling asleep? But no, the limpet sighed into his tear-dampened chest and said once again, "I'm bor-ed."

Of course she's bored. Well, not all card games required gambling. Unfortunately, John didn't know any of those. Still, the girls could teach him.

"Right. We shall play cards," announced John. He stood awkwardly, with a five year old tucked under his arm. The doctor elf limped over to the milk crate and picked up the brand new, unopened deck of cards. It was a bit odd that the girls hadn't played with the cards yet, he thought. He would have opened them immediately, if he wasn't busy either trying to break out of this cell or acting as nanny-in-chief.

Lisbeth was deposited back onto her pallet and covered with the comforter. After pulling out the oat cereal and raisins for nibbles, John set the blue cooler in between the bedrolls to act as a table.

As soon as John let himself fall back down onto the pallet, Lisbeth draped herself dramatically over his aching leg, to better display her sadness and boredom.

John was amazed. It was extraordinary! Sherlock's signature moves were identical to the moves of a five-year old child. It probably said something disturbing about John that he even found such a man attractive. A very attractive man in fact. Right.

"So, what kind of card games do you know, Em?" he asked brightly. She looked at him blankly. He tried again, "Well… on a rainy day what do you play with your friends. Old Maid, Rummy, GO FISH?" he asked, dredging up the names from his distant childhood.

"Um, we play Mario Kart or Wii Just Dance?" said Emily, who clearly didn't recognize the classics.

"I like Just Dance; can we play Just Dance! Let's Just Dance!" shrieked Lisbeth, stomping on John's green-booted foot, as she got up to dance. The blonde's strop was temporarily forgotten, as she bounced and writhed in obscure dance moves.

"You don't know _any _card games?" asked the frowning elf, who was sadly behind the times.

Emily shook her head no. John pursed his lips…Well, desperate times call for desperate measures, and John chose the lesser of several evils before he ran out of platitudes.

"Then we shall have to play games that I know," John announced firmly placing the cards on the cooler.

Lisbeth deflated when she realized that Just Dance was not about to start and, she collapsed sadly, almost in tears again, draped over John's legs.

" I wanna go home!" cried the little blond girl.

"Me too," said Emily, burying her face in John's shoulder.

"Right," said John stoically, as he began to shuffle the deck. "We shall be leaving in the next day or two. In the mean time, we are going to play poker".

Emily at least looked up. "Da plays poker with 'the boys'; and mummy doesn't like it if he smokes."

"Well, see, Johnny elf likes to play poker too, and he doesn't smoke. So we're all good, yeah," said Captain Watson.

Emily nodded her grudging approval.

"It's fun, Lisbeth. It really is," said Johnny, who was actually looking forward to playing. "Em, please count out twenty-five pieces of Oaty-Ohs for each of us. Lisbeth…"

"I want a nickername, like Em," said the tiny little blond, leaning sadly into John.

"Right, your call sign… is… Lizzy," said John, showing off with some rather impressive shuffling tricks, or so he thought. Emily poured some cereal into her hand and ate it.

"Wass a callsign?" ask Lizzy, sniffling.

"It's like a nickname, for when you're in the army. When I was in Afghanistan, they usually called me Doc," said John, wisely not mentioning his other call sign. "Lizzy, go get a roll of tissues, and please blow your nose again." The little girl shuffled slowly over to the 'loo' and brought back her tissues.

"No you can't be Doc. Doc is a dwarf and not a elf." said Emily. "Doc is a dwarf from Snow White," She carefully began counting the cereal out and then ate some more.

"Yeah, well, they still called me Doc …'cause I was a doctor so…"

"No, Doc is a dwarf, and you're not a dwarf. You're a elf." said Emily with finality

"I know! Johnnybel," shrieked Lisbeth, "Johnnybel elf."

"Um I don't think so," said John, "it sound's kind of … um, we'll just stick to Johnny or Doc, all right? Now I am about to deal the cards. We all get five cards…"

"I want six!" shrieked Lisbeth, with another mood swing. John never knew that little girls were so moody, or that they shrieked so much. "I want six. I want six"

"Stand down, Lizzy," said Johnny. "And take your seat, please. You will get _five_ cards."

Lizzy took her seat on John's right leg. In the interest of troop morale, John ignored his leg's protests.

Emily looked at her cards, and then asked, "Where is Major? Did he go away? Is he coming back?" She bit her the ends of her hair nervously.

"Oh. Well," said John, who didn't know how to answer. "I have no idea, really." said John, biting his lip. Once again he worried about where the major had gone. And worried about when he was coming back-if he was coming back. And if he wasn't coming back; then John had to worry about being trapped in this room for another day, because by then, the water would be running out. And he worried about why Sherlock hadn't come to find them…John sucked in his cheeks and forced himself to worry about playing poker for now.

"Right. We'll have to wait and see about the Major. Maybe, he's not going to bother us anymore," said John hopefully.

"Can we go home then?" asked Lisbeth.

"Ahh…" said John. "Well, it's too dark out right now. So, my plan is…" John thought about it, "my plan is, that I'll work on getting the bars off of that window. Then, once the bars are off. I can climb down a rope, and then run back up the steps and get you. And _then_… I'll run you home. So I'm figuring we can leave sometime tomorrow, yeah? Day after tomorrow at the latest."

John smiled his best elvish smile. The girls smiled back, pleased that Johnny elf had a plan in place.

"Okay, Lizzy, show me your cards," said Johnny, chewing on a straw stuck in his mouth. The straw substituted for a cigar. He had liked to smoke a big stinky cigar when playing poker (Sherlock really did not ever need to know that).

"Outstanding, you already have a pair of nines and a king. We'll discard the ten and the jack. And get two new cards," said John.

"I want all new ones!" said the five-year old, pushing her cards over to the dealer and pulling her scarf off.

"Lizzy-bet, trust me; keep the pair of nines at least. You might just win. And leave the shemagh on your head. It's freezing in here, and you're just getting over a cold…Oh damn!"

"Damn," said Em and Lizzy.

"Don't do that," said John absently, "You're gonna put me off my game."

"Okay, see what happens when we get distracted? We forgot to ante in. Everyone put in one piece of Oaty-Oh's... See that's called your ante, it's your wager, right? Good. Now Em, show me your cards," said the captain. "Well, you have an ace, so you should keep that."

"I want to keep the queen too," whined Emily. "I like the queen."

"Fine, fine, God save the Queen," agreed John, eager to move on. "So, Em here will take three. And as usual I have a terrible hand, so I'll take four cards. Now this is just practice, not real poker. Yet. We'll walk through a few rounds until you get the hang of it,"

John dealt out some new cards. "Lisbeth, you are eating your chips. The cereal is your chips," both girls looked confused. "It's your money, sweetheart. The chips stand in for money and the cereal stands in for chips. In our game, each Oaty-oh is one penny. Don't worry, Lizzy, I'll help you count. Now, I'm going to replace your chips and give you a pile of cereal to eat. These you can eat," said John pointing to a pile of cereal. "These you bet with. I'll start the wagering so you see how it's done…"

* * *

"Roberts has been in custody all day. And we're learning nothing. Nothing!" yelled the World's Only Consulting Detective, slamming his hands onto the desk, "Just give me ten minutes! Ten minutes!"

"Sherlock, you know I can't leave you alone with him!" Lestrade yelled back. "I tried to let you question him, and you bloody well tried to strangle him!"

"He has John locked up somewhere! You've _seen_ Roberts's record. He was too violent for the military! They were planning to discharge him, before he went missing. He even beat his wife. We know he beat-up John, because John's blood is on that bastard's clothes and the note and his boots. John is injured! Somewhere John is probably lying injured and bleeding. He may have bled to death by now!"

"Dammit, Sherlock, calm down. There wasn't that much blood. There's no reason to assume that he was badly hurt," said Lestrade digging the heels of his hands into his burning eyes. God in heaven, but he was tired. One of his best friends was missing, presumed injured and held prisoner. Two little girls were kidnapped and God only knows if they were injured. And the press was in a feeding frenzy because it had been four days…almost five now since the girls were taken…

Donovan burst into the office without knocking. "Okay, I just finished in'erviewing Roberts again. I dunno; 'e keeps changin' 'is story. Now 'e says that 'is associates took the girls up north. But 'e says 'e don't know where. On top o'that, now 'e says Watson chased 'im first and attacked 'im, for no reason…"

"Lies, lies, lies!" shouted the consulting detective.

"An' then afterwards, he says Watson ran off like a coward and…"

"Lies!" Sherlock slammed his hands on the desk again.

"I know they're lies! Most of 'em anyway," said Sally Donovan. "I'm not stupid. Jus 'cause you say I'm stupid. don't make it true, Freak!"

Sherlock huffed and turned toward the detective inspector, "Lestrade, just give me five minutes."

"Oh God, give 'im the five minutes," muttered Sally, running her hand through her hair and longing for a hot shower. "I'm not getting anywhere with Roberts. That man deserves to spend some quality time with the Freak."

"You see," said Sherlock, smugly standing tall, "even Sergeant Donovan agrees with me."

"Look. It's perfectly normal to be upset, Sherlock, but instead of throwing a fit," said Lestrade. "why don't you tell me whatever you can from this madman's ramblings, eh?"

The World's Only Consulting Detective looked affronted, at Lestrade's outrageous suggestion that he, Sherlock Holmes, was in anyway normal.

"There's little to interpret. Roberts is going through withdrawal. I'm surprised his solicitor hasn't demanded medical care. Clearly, counsel is inadequate. Regardless, your prisoner is raving. Yet between his lies and paranoid delusions, the truth is slowly seeping out. He has admitted previously that he took the girls and kept them in London. This is the first time that he admits that he and John crossed paths and had an altercation. Then there are the mysterious accomplices. Whoever they are; they are no doubt anxious at the loss of their leader. However, I do not know if their uncertainty will help or hurt John…and the girls too, of course." He added as an afterthought. The consulting detective stopped, fingers to his lips. "The key is to keep him talking. If he keeps talking, sooner or later he will let more information slip. Don't let the solicitor stop his flow…"

"That bloody solicitor! She's puttin' on the brakes right now! She's demandin', _demandin' _that we give Roberts a chance to sleep. I'd like to put 'im to sleep! That bloody son of a…"

"Yeah, all right, Donovan," said the detective inspector rubbing his stubble."We are feelings are running high, but we have to remain professional. God, Sally, when was the last time you had some rest?"

"I dunno," she said. "When was the last time _you_ got some sleep?" She nudged the pile of empty Styrofoam cups on the edge of his desk, knocking one over onto the floor. "You're livin' on coffee an…"

"Oh for God's sake!" growled Sherlock. "Can we just concentrate on the case? Roberts would not relinquish control of his possessions so easily. And that is what his daughters are to him. So they, and John, are still in London. That's why he's holding out. He thinks they'll stay hidden. But we know more than he realizes. The location of his hideout must be within a short walking distance of the alley where he captured John. It is very likely that he also walked to his supplier where he was apprehended by Dimmock's team."

"He could've ridden the tube…" began Sally.

"No Oyster card. No tickets," said Sherlock with a half-smirk. "And, he wasn't seen on the underground's CCTV cameras. I checked; Roberts did not arrive by taxi. Now put it all together…Dear God, what's the point of having a brain if you won't use it. Think! Even if Roberts is very fit, he could not carry John for more than a mile. Half mile more likely." Sherlock drew imaginary circles on an imaginary map in front of him. Lestrade got up and walked over to his wall map, trying to follow Sherlock's mutterings.

"The walk to his supplier could have been longer of course," said Sherlock, speaking mostly to himself. "But it's cold out. It's raining and sleeting. Roberts had money enough for a dozen cabs if he wanted one. Yet he walked. Why? Because it was only a short walk. And, then too, he had to stop at the chemists to get the medicines. That's where he picked up ready to eat sandwiches too. So that gives us a range of oh say a mile. And that gives us some direction. We can draw a vector from the chemist's to the dealer… And where does it over lap with the first radius, John's radius…here!"

Sherlock loomed over the shorter DI, and his long finger punched at Lestrade's map. "This is the area we need to concentrate on." Said Sherlock. "We need to scour this section of six to seven square blocks. We need to cordon off the area in case Roberts henchmen try to run with the girls."

"Right," said the detective inspector slowly. "We've actually got a team working near this side already. I can move Dimmock's team in here."

Sherlock looked up, tilting his head to the side.

"Yeah, Dimmock's got most his team helping us on this for now. Just so you know, Sherlock, probably half the force has volunteered to search for John and the Berry girls even though it's Christmas. We've got volunteer police units from as far away as Glasgow helping in the search. And just so you know, some of 'em are volunteering specifically 'cause it's John. Some of us think of John Watson almost as a member of the force. A lot of us consider him a friend. So stick that in your mind palace, mate. And while you're at it, you could start treating my people a little better. Next time you wanna rip into someone, try thinking what John would have to say about it."

Sherlock did think about what John would say, about almost everything. It didn't necessarily stop Sherlock, but John was always a consideration. Always. And that's what made this situation so…difficult. It was hard to concentrate when he kept thinking about John Watson.

Sherlock had spent years trying to ensure John's safety from Moriarty's intrigues. And in the blink of an eye, John was in danger from a paranoid, drug addicted nobody. John was lost, and in danger, and it was intolerable.

And John had been injured, there was no telling how minor or severe his injuries were. Obviously John had been well enough to write a note asking for medications for a sick child and for tea. But the injury or injuries had bled for more than a few minutes. The mysterious accomplices were a wild card, to use John's vernacular. Surely, they had no reason to hurt Sherlock's blogger as long as John cooperated. And John was cooperating; he was writing out over-the-counter prescriptions for the kidnapped girls. Surely John wouldn't try any thing heroic and get himself killed…But. But, John was an idiot. Given time and the least little excuse, John Watson _would_ try to do something heroic.

The sooner they found John the better. Then John couldn't do anything stupid. Sherlock would see to that. And every injury on his blogger would be repaid threefold, one way or another. Roberts and his friends would rue the day that they kidnapped John Watson.

Sherlock shook his head. First he needed to find the kidnapper's hide out, and then he'd free his blogger…no, his boyfriend. He needed to free his boyfriend, and he needed to demonstrate to everyone, that John belonged to him.

Sherlock had not forgotten this resolution. Not at all. He would stake his claim for everyone to see. There would be no more Mary Morstan's mooning around John, because they'd see that he already belonged to Sherlock Holmes.

It was time to finish this, all of this. Sherlock blinked. The room was quiet. He was alone with Lestrade.

"Hello! Are ya back with us now, Sherlock?" asked Lestrade.

"I never… went anywhere," said the subdued consulting detective.

"Yeah, you were standing right there, but your mind was off somewhere else for ten, fifteen minutes," said Lestrade handing the tall, pale brunet a steaming cup of coffee. "Watch it, it's still hot" warned the DI. " Look, Sherlock. I hav'ta ask; you and John…are you two? Um…"

Lestrade did not need to know, not yet. Not until John was back in Sherlock's possession.

"We have confirmed that Roberts was in these two locations, and that this is surely the area where John is held. It's an old, rundown part of London. I haven't had an opportunity to re-acquaint myself with the area since my return. As I recall, it is a pathetic mix of industry, warehouses and offices. Much of it is vacant; some of it is surely condemned by now. People will be returning to work in the offices and stores that still operate; they may see something. Vagrants, addicts and the homeless may have already seen something. I am going to go question my sources again, specific to our new target location…"

"Homeless network?" asked Lestrade. His eyes brightened with interest even though he looked years older, with dark circles under his eyes and stubble on his chin.

Sherlock nodded sharply, "If anyone has seen something, it will be one of them. I'll be in touch," The younger man, with his ghostly pallor and haunted eyes, prepared to sweep out of the room.

Donovan, returning through the door, caught his arm and held him in place.

"You know Doctor Watson's rules, Freak. You gotta wait for me or Lestrade," Sergeant Donovan looked at the detective inspector, "Sorry to barge in again, Lestrade. But Mr. Berry is here. And the representative from the mayor's office wants to speak to you too."

"Oh bloody fantastic, anything else?" asked Lestrade, staring down into his empty mug. He didn't remember drinking his coffee. That was probably a bad sign.

"Oh yeah, there's more," said Donovan dropping heavily into a chair, but keeping her eyes on the consulting detective. "The Berrys know that Elizabeth was ill and needed medicine. They 'ad to sedate Mrs. Berry, after she found out. Mr. Berry is gonna do a press conference in an hour, beggin' Roberts' accomplices to release the girls. He's probably gonna offer to pay ransom,"

Lestrade groaned. "Oh God, he can't do that! Jesus, Mary and Joseph! I have to stay here, which means you have Sherlock duty, Donovan."

She nodded, resigned to her fate.

"Think of it this way, Sally. The sooner we find John Watson, the sooner we don't have t' watch Sherlock," said Lestrade, with a rueful little smile.

"Yeah, now that's real motivation," she said with a grin. They both ignored the ire emanating from the narrow-eyed consultant. "Anyway, dealing with the Freak is probably better than dealin' with Mr. Berry and another solicitor. And don't forget Gillian from the mayor's office. Oi, you also promised to make a press statement, and they're on the warpath. I'll just have'em send Mr. Berry in first shall I?" Said Sergeant Donovan standing up to leave.

"Oh yeah. Thanks for that," said Lestrade, smoothing down his wrinkled shirt and then trying to rub out a mustard stain, all in vain. "Sherlock, keep me in the loop, yeah? Don't go haring off on your own. Keep an eye on him Sally. I don't wanna have to face John Watson, if something happens to Sherlock.

**A/N **Didn't finish this for Christmas. As usual, the story got away from me. Kinda like a helium balloon.

I would like to thank followers, favoriters and reviewers. Your comments were marvelous Christmas presents. Thank you, thank you to anyrei1, Guest and DrGregor for your reviews.

**Disclaimer** I don't own the rights to SHERLOCK. Kudos to Moffat and Gatiss for their extraordinary creation and to Cumberbatch and Freeman and all the actors who brought SHERLOCK to life.

[Okay, I am wallowing in sentiment tonight. Yes, I have been obsessing all Christmas over the mini-episode and John's blog. It's just too much. And I can't stop hearing John say, "Stop being dead."][*Sigh*]


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter the Fifth**

**A/N **I apologize for the delay in posting.

I also apologize if JOhn makes a surprise return. Spell Check is acting oddly. While I did go through looking for JOhns, some of them may have been hiding in amongst the Johns.

* * *

John's young protégés had taken to poker, like ducks to water.

To be honest, Elisabeth required a great deal of advice from her green-clad mentor. She insisted on keeping certain cards, such as fives, (because she was five-years old) or the pretty picture cards. The latter wasn't a bad strategy, all things considered, but it just wasn't the way one played the game. And she had a regrettable tendency to brag about her great hands before the wagering even began.

Still, Lizzy had a lot of fun with the game. She liked to ante in, and she loved to squeal 'hit me' and 'read 'em and weep, sucker!'

With John's usual luck at cards, she was able to shriek the latter quite often. John bore it stoically.

Emily was a natural-born card shark. She quickly learned all the different suites and hands. Then too, she was surprisingly good at bluffing and improving rapidly. Hopefully, her parents wouldn't sue John for corruption of a minor or something.

The thing was, John suspected that Emily might have been exposed to poker before dealing with Johnny Elf. Perhaps, he deduced, Emily had learned how to play by watching her ad. John chewed on the end of his straw to thwart his thirst and not because it was a substitute for a cigar. Yes, perhaps, Em was a ringer. In that case, maybe John was safe from formal charges. Emily the ringer made him feel better about handing over all his cereal chips yet again.

John lost all his Oaty-Ohs several times over. He had been forced to write out IOU's to his new mates. He used a purple crayon in honor of Harold.* (The walls of their cell were well decorated with purple stick figures from earlier in the day.) He figured that have to buy each girl a whole box of cereal when they got out, since he knew that they wouldn't want to share. After all, he had a sister. He might be pushing forty, but he still clearly remembered not wanting to share with Harry.

John and his young companions had played for hours, forgetting for a time about their captivity, their cold and their hunger. John now remembered how much he enjoyed singing with mates who didn't worry about achieving the perfect pitch or who were overly nice about the lyrics and who didn't insist that classical music was superior to all other forms of music. Actually, the former soldier hadn't sung at all since his last stint in Afghanistan, so this enforced sleepover was a bit of fun, when he wasn't worried about the return of a violent, drug abusing, possibly paranoid kidnapper.

The girls enjoyed singing as much as John and they belted out some of John's less objectionable drinking songs (plus some of the more disreputable Christmas carols) well into the night. All three agreed that singing and poker were more fun than Mario Kart and might even be as fun as Just Dance.

When John remembered his Mission Impossible, he assuaged his guilt by preparing his rope. Ripping cloth, braiding it and tying it together with knots he'd learned in Scouting, was easily done while indulging his twin vices of gambling with breakfast cereal and singing off-tune songs with rhymes like loo and poo. And the rope had to be completed anyway, didn't it?

Captain Watson had torn apart one mattress, in order to salvage the cloth for his rope. He would need the rope to climb down from the third story window, assuming that his Great Escape plan actually succeeded.

When he gambling, Johnny was, like many gamblers, a bit superstitious. So John was a tad worried that making the rope _before_ the window was accessible, might cast a jinx on all his efforts, On the plus side, John's cards tonight were all lousy, which meant his luck wasn't being wasted on poker. _That _meant his luck might be available for the Great Escape. (This sort of reasoning was not anything that Sherlock ever needed to know about. The silly git did not believe in luck, which, of course was just ridiculous.)

"Read 'em and weep!" shrieked Lizzy. John looked at her full house and knew that Luck existed. And as usual, Luck was avoiding him at cards: John wrote out another IOU as Lizzy ate some of her winnings and the last pieces of orange. John firmly felt that Luck owed him big time, and Luck better show up when he went back to work on that ruddy window.

* * *

It was very late when Lisbeth's head began to nod in the midst of a rousing chorus of "Weigh, hey and up she rises, weigh, hey and up she rises…"* Even Em looked heavy-eyed, as she counted her massive winnings and ate them.

After relating yet another tale about The World's Greatest Detective, Johnny Elf convinced the girls to go to bed, even if Emily complained that a pallet on the floor was not really a bed. John, on the verge of collapse himself, even gave in to his transport's demands, and he took a short nap. (Yeah, I know Sherlock. It's all just transport. Still, I'll just kip here for a bit, thanks.)

When his watch alarm sounded three hours later, Captain John Watson woke up stiff and cold and still achingly tired. At first John could barely stand due to his cramped muscles. Of course, his left shoulder was all but frozen. HA! Frozen, good one that; given the temperature in the room. John had of course turned off the kerosene heater when he decided to sleep for a few hours. He gingerly rolled his shoulders and stretched, until he could move about almost like a human being again.

It was a pity, he mused, watching his breath ghost onto one of the surviving window panes. Yes, a very great pity that he had stubbornly refused to let Mycroft put some kind of high-tech tracking gizmo in his watch. If he had, he and the girls would have been rescued ages ago. They would have been safe and warm their own beds. They wouldn't have missed Christmas. And John would not be shuffling around in a frigid dark cell, wearing a deteriorating elf costume, getting ready to chip his way to freedom with a ruddy pipe.

John squared his shoulders and straightened the shemagh on his head. He wrapped some more strips of cloth around his hands for protection, and began chiseling at the second bolt with his all-purpose copper pipe.

* * *

John spent the remainder of the night freeing the last two bolts, which anchored the metal cage to the bottom sill. The scraping and chiseling woke Emily three times and Elisabeth once. The girls were a bit grumpy about it. John was feeling pretty grumpy too, but he smiled like a good Christmas elf should and tucked the girls back in bed each time they awoke. The second bolt was free at 0420 hours. John took a short break to celebrate. He allowed himself to sip a bit of the water collected in the opened juice pouches. It was only a few icy tablespoons of water, but it tasted better than tea. Thankfully, it was still raining, and the pouches would be refilled.

At 0749 the last bottom bolt was free. It was anti-climatic.

The exhausted doctor rested his head on the icy cold metal bars that were still firmly secured from above. The army captain glared at the three bolts in the lintel overhead. They stood between him and freedom. He reasoned that he might be able to work the others loose by just wiggling the iron cage around. Should only take a few more hours; after all, one bolt was already partially dug out. He pursed his lips and thought, should be a piece of cake. Then he thought, it's a pity that Mycroft isn't here to eat the cake. He sighed, Sherlock would have found the joke mildly amusing, perhaps even sharing that little half grin with John.

John felt uneasy. He had no idea where Roberts was. And there was reason to assume that Roberts wouldn't return at any moment, and God only knew what would happen if when he did return (nothing good, that was for certain). Even if Roberts never returned, they would run out of provisions sometime today. John was not uneasy, he was damned worried.

Now that it was daylight, grey and somber though it was, he looked down at the street. His hope that Boxing Day would bring out shoppers, office workers and trades people had fizzled. There were no people on the street. This was a dead zone.

It was as if the Zombie Apocalypse had started. John sighed, unreasonably unnerved at the thought of Zombies. Stress and exhaustion must be driving him round the twist, John decided. Of course there were no Zombies because Zombies weren't real. Captain John Hamish Watson RAMC was definitely not worried about Zombie.

Sherlock didn't need to know about this _issue_ either. John began making a mental list of Things Not to Tell Sherlock . It was an extensive list, which might make for some awkward evenings in, once John got out.

For all these reasons, the ex-army doctor was edgy, as he began wiggling the lower edge of the cage, hoping to work the bolts loose.

"Damn!" he cried out when he accidentally pinched his finger under the edge of the metal cage. He shook his hand muttering about Roberts's paternity.

The sisters groggily echoed, "damn,". The sat up. Emily rubbed her eyes and Lizzy tried to wipe her nose on her hoodie. Johnny elf insisted that she use the tissues. Both girls had matted, tangled hair. They were grimey, cold and grumpy and very tired of captivity.

Doctor Watson tried to smile and be pleasant, in spite of his own growing agitation. He allowed the girls to finish the last toaster pastry, the last of the raisins, and the last juice pouch but one. Johnny Elf ate four somewhat soggy saltines and a piece of brown apple that he found at the bottom of the cooler. He also drank a couple more tablespoons of rain and sleet from his ingenious collection unit located on the windowsill. John thought it was ingenious. Sherlock would probably call it pedestrian or something.

John took a few minutes to try to clean his charges up after breakfast. It began with hand washing, which seemed reasonable even to the girls. Next however, he attacked Lizzy's face and neck with a cold, wet cloth, which he'd hung out in the rain. Lizzy squirmed and muttered questions about John's paternity, but at least her cheeks were a clean and shiny pink. John mentioned that little girls should not use such language. He was treated to a sophisticated eye roll and lip curl combo that once again rivaled the best that Sherlock could produce. John then pointed out that elves could get in trouble if people found out that little girls learned such language from said elves. It was worth a try.

Em was a clever girl. The wash-up was obviously inevitable, and John was obviously thorough and none too gentle. So the young brunette had quickly washed her own face and neck with the second wet rag that the doctor provided, with only minimal complaint.

Next Captain Watson, in an act of surprising cruelty, insisted on trying to comb their hair and tie it back. The improvised shemaghs, which he'd made them yesterday were put back on to keep their heads and necks warm. The scarves also served to hide his rather pathetic attempts at braiding.

It was time for inspection.

"Right. Troops. Atten-shun!" The girls stood up straight, sort of. "Pre-sent Arms!" They held their hands out for inspection. "Outstanding. Very clean," he added approvingly in his Captain Watson voice. He surveyed their clean faces and tamed hair. He personally thought the shemaghs were a nice and practical touch.

"I'm proud of both of you...and Father Christmas will be proud too. Now," Captain Watson said, his voice returning to normal, "Now, I need to finish working on the window. I have to finish, if we're to get the hel…he..heck out of here. I want you both to keep your trainers on to keep your feet warm. Lizzy, I do mean you. Keep the shoes on. Why don't you color for a bit or..." he added seeing their looks of resistance, "or you could build a house of cards, yeah?"

Naturally, John had to show them how to build a house of cards. Then Emily tried it on her own. Now that he had the troops occupied. John could return to his mission.

Lizzy soon lost interest in the cards and followed John over to the window. The former army elf had to keep asking her to move back so that the dust wouldn't get in her eyes... and how many times must he ask her not to play with the pipe because it was sharp... and "Lisbeth, do not tease your sister while she is building that lovely house..."

* * *

"Lisbeth Berry, apologize to Em for knocking her cards over," said John gritting his teeth and rocking the metal cage back and forth even harder.

"Em! Don't even think about it!" snapped the angry Elf Captain, without even turning around. Emily lowered her book and innocently and sat down to read.

"I am disappointed, very disappointed," said John, to no one in particular, which is just as well since no one in particular paid him any mind.

Lizzy prowled the room like a caged fox, glowering like a certain consulting detective. Emily sat smugly under her covers, no doubt plotting revenge like a minor government worker. John ignored her when she stuck her tongue out at him. He mostly ignored them both. After all, he had years of experience dealing with the Holmes brothers, and he knew that he had to pick his battles.

John Watson also knew, in the very depths of his soul, that he had to get our of this cell _today_. Ignoring sore muscles the same way he ignored stropy girls, he pulled hard at the metal cage covering the window, and then pushed it back even harder. The bolts grated overhead, dust was settling over his scarf and shoulders. This was good, very good. The cage would come down soon. John pulled it forward a couple of inches and was gratified by the metallic groan one of the bolts emited.

Oh yeah, he would get out of here soon. He had to get out before Roberts came back for them. Push the cage back. He had to get out before hunger reared its ugly head . Pull the bars out. And thirst? Don't even think about it. Push it back. John had to get out before the Zombies...no scratch that. Pull. He had to get out before the troops turned on him. And push. He pushed it back to the sound of metal grinding in the cement. That sounded promising. And pull, hard. He had to get out soon, really soon.

* * *

Lisbeth had been very naughty and ripped her sister's book. And John _knew_ that Emily had pinched her sister when his back was turned. There was a double time-out. There was a short period of grizzling, while Captain Watson worked at escaping this, this…whatever. Hell, there were probably psychological terms for all this, but John just wanted out. And more importantly, he wanted Em and Lizzy out. He wanted to know that they were home and safe and happy. Even though he was really, really, really disappointed, (maybe he was even a tiny bit angry but he hid it well)

However, right now, they wanted stories and a drink. He could probably manage all that and still work on escape. Still, he had to get them settled first.

"No. I will not tell anymore stories about that dashing detective until you both sit down, _under _the covers," said John, ignoring the puppy-dog eyes. He waited until they burrowed under the princess covered covers.

Once he had regained control over his mutinous troops. He offered them each a couple of ounces of water and sleet from the pouches on the windowsill. They looked at the 'fresh, all natural ices' suspiciously, then they sipped them slowly, as if they were drinking tea.

John decided that Baskerville was sufficiently exciting to keep them occupied for a while. Of course in this version, no one died, especially not the dog. As a boy, John had been traumatized himself, when he read Old Yeller, so there would be no animals dying in this story.

John told them the sanitized version of the events in Grimpen Village, as he worked at the cage, feeling it in his shoulders and back. His voice was hoarse from breathing in the dust but he kept on talking now the troops were cooperating. The blond elf told himself that he had not succumbed to those pouting lips or the wide-eyed stares of his very sad companions. He had merely decided that telling stories would boost troop morale. He was only being practical. Yes, he was as always a logical, practical man.

* * *

"Yes, of course, he is _very_ handsome," answered John, sucking on his scrapped knuckle.

"Like how? Does he look like Justin Bieber?" asked Emily, who was sucking loudly on her cough drop which was the only food left other than a couple handfuls of cereal.

"Well, I don't know what this Bieber looks like," said Johnny Elf, his brow wrinkled. He had heard of Bieber…maybe, but he probably didn't look like Sherlock. Nobody looked like Sherlock, John smiled to himself.

"Anyway," said Captain John briskly returning to the discussion. "the World's Greatest Detective is very tall and thin, and he's surprisingly strong. He has dark, wavy hair that curls at the ends. He has these cheekbones...Well yes, Em, everyone does have cheekbones. Of course they do. Trust me, he has, um _stunning_ cheekbones. And he has blue eyes, blue-green-grey eyes," said his hoarse voice softening. It wasn't that he missed the consulting detective…all right yes, he did miss the consulting detective. It was almost a physical ache. It brought back all the pain he had felt after The Fall. It was ridiculous. He was a grown man, and he shouldn't be pining. Still... he worried about Sherlock Holmes. The man could get himself into so much trouble. And just who was watching Sherlock's back now?

A rustling sound reminded him that he wasn't alone. John wrapped his knuckle with a strip of cloth.

"But I'll tell you a little secret," he continued. "And this is a secret, right? As handsome as he is, and as smart as he is, the real beauty of the man is the way he secretly cares about his friends. Even though he likes to pretend he doesn't care," said John sharing this very particular truth to his mates. He returned to working at the loosely held bars. "And The Detective always protects and helps his friends, which is how I know he's looking for us right now," said John, narrowing his eyes at the lintel overhead. Something had given way. The cage was decidedly looser. There was certainly more play…

Somehow, the former soldier found the strength to work the bars back and forth even harder.

* * *

"Yes. Lots, and lots of women, besides The Woman, want to date him," he said truthfully. John Watson had just given the girls a mostly fictitious account of the events surrounding The Woman. "Well, he is very handsome, so yeah, they try to win his affections, but_ he_ isn't interested in _them_," said John with a smirk. It was true; after all, Sherlock seemed more interested in John than all those beautiful women (and a few handsome men as well).

Well, except for _that_ _Woman_. Sherlock _had_ been interested in _The Woman_. John scowled jealously as he recalled the smug, sexy, know-it-all smirk on her treacherous, painted lips, and he gave the cage a hard, viscous wrench.

The bars came crashing down on John, glancing his shoulder and narrowly missing his foot. The clanging of the bars hitting the floor echoed in the cell.

"Damn!" cried John, Emily and Lisbeth in unison.

John lifted the window sash, letting the cold wind blow in. He stood on the cooler and cautiously leaned out the window. He looked down to freedom. Then, with both hope and fear, Captain Watson checked to the left and the right, to see if the noise had attracted any attention. Regrettably, no police came to investigate. Fortunately, no Zombies came running either.

Johnny elf was covered in sweat and grit, his eyes were red with lack of sleep and irritated by the dust. He turned back to his charges with a wide manic grin, which they eagerly returned.

"Lizzy, please bring me the rope," requested Captain Johnny Elf. "If all goes as planned, we shall have you girls home in time for tea."

* * *

The reluctant Holmes-Donovan partnership spent a long night canvassing drunks, homeless persons and low-level criminals and then chasing down leads that dead-ended in frustration. It was daylight when Sergeant Donovan started to fall asleep in her car, while Sherlock Holmes inexplicably Goggled the difference between rutabagas and turnips (It had no bearing on the present case but might prove crucial in a cold case, whose file he had illegally kept at Baker Street.)

The consulting detective almost held his breath when Donovan's head drifted down. She jerked it up twice and then finally, finally her chin was resting on her chest. Soft almost-snores escaped her parted lips.

Sherlock bided his time with difficulty. With extreme care, he opened the passenger-side door and set the locks to keep her safe. He could vividly imagine Lestrade's fury and worse, John's disappointment, if something happened to the sleeping woman after Sherlock's escape.

He shut the door and ran; not waiting to see if the Sergeant awoke from her long overdue rest. Sherlock struck out on his own, tearing through dim alleys that refused to acknowledge that it was day.

The tall brunet returned to one of his old haunts. The stained brick of the crack house was familiar, welcoming. His arm ached with sudden need. Sherlock clenched his fists, denying the call thrumming through his veins.

It was true that a stimulant could assist his brain work. It could organize his thoughts, focus them. It could provide…It could be the straw that broke the camel's back. It could drive John Watson away, once and for all. John's lined, disappointed face appeared in his minds eye. John looked sad and…he had his luggage packed, ready to leave Baker Street forever because Sherlock had given in to his craving. Even John's imaginary disappointment and despair were devastating.

The only thing more terrifying than John leaving Sherlock for using drugs, was the thought of John _staying_ in spite of the drugs. The thought of John watching as Sherlock descended into addiction was intolerable. And what if... what if John, in some misguided sense of loyalty was tempted to try the drugs himself?

Stupid! Stupid! Of course that would never happen. Sherlock was simply falling prey to sentiment again. But there was no good outcome, if Sherlock gave into his cravings. It was all Stupid.

He was here for information. He was not here for chemical stimulation, no matter how tempting. With thin, bloodless lips pressed tightly together. The World's Only Consulting Detective walked around to the side door and knocked.

* * *

He wasted time and treasure (Mycroft's treasure) listening to three different drug addled 'non-informants'. Then he found a possible lead, in the form of a brown-haired, brown-skinned woman wearing several layers of mismatched clothing, which was topped off with a bright red hat and muffler.

Whenever the woman's hands left her pockets, her hands shook. She had once been lovely, before her face turned skull-like under ashy paper-thin skin. No doubt the result of living on cocaine and cigarettes instead of John Watson's much-vaunted nutritional programme.

"Tell me; what did Tom say to you?" Sherlock asked the young addict.

"Well, 'e were pretty 'igh," she said, picking at her muffler. "But 'e said, 'e heard a ghost down tha old shoe fackt'ry. Tha' spir-it wus callin' out for 'elp and singin'. We all jus laughed; thot it were sport. But then, I hear'd you wus lookin' for a friend. And I thinks 'bout it more and come to you."

"Can you be more exact?" asked the consulting detective, refusing to let himself hope. "Where and when?"

"It were near tha ol' shoe fack-tory, whats locked behind c'struction fence. It's 'cross from Gregor's biscuits. I loved them biscuits. Me mum used t' buy me Gregor's, 'fore it went under..."

"Yes, delightful," said the tall, pale man who was anything but delighted with her rambling discourse.

An' it were yister-day; how's I member, is cause Tom and I bof gots the same muffler from some charity bint, on account it was Chris-mas."

"Yes, yes, yes. Back to the ghostly voice," he prompted impatiently.

"Uh, yeah... it were some shoutin'. An eerie voice calling out for help. Tha spirit were sayin' e' was trapped and to call police," she said grimacing with the effort of thinking.

Then the young woman chucked grimly, "Like Tom would e'er call police. Tha's how I knows it's _not_ jus the drugs talkin'." She added slyly. "Tom 'ud die 'fore calling the cops, so Tom's not gonna dream 'bout calling police, right?" She waited in vain for the consulting detective to share the joke. "Anyhows, 'e said after 'e and an 'is mates camped out in the fack'try for the night, the spirits started singin'. Oh yeah, it were spooky, 'e said. Eerie like. He ain't said no more 'bout it. An I don know where he gone to after tha. 'Course Tom'll 'ave on a brite red muffler, jus like this un. Mebee someone else seen 'im."

"He said, the _spirits _started singing? More than one spirit then," asked Sherlock Holmes, his silver eyes gleaming. "Be sure about this. Think."

Her eyes squeezed shut as she thought. "Yeah!" she said explosively. "Yeah, 'e said the spirits, more than one, were singin'. Dint say wat they was singin'. NoW I likes..."

"Fine, " he said slipping several bills into her eager, trembling hands. "I will pay you more if you can bring me any more information. Anything at all." He added his card to the money in her hand.

It wasn't much of a lead. It was probably just squatters, because of course, John never sang. Singing did not fit John Watson's rigid, military persona. John probably didn't even know how to sing. Furthermore children in captivity were even more unlikely to sing than John Watson. No. Kidnapped children were more likely to be catatonic with fear. It was another red herring. More wasted time.

The consulting detective stood in the doorway of the crack-house nursing his cigarette and resisting the siren call of crystalline relief and vials of liquid tranquility.

He ran one finger up over his lips and considered. The shoe factory was only _just _outside the range that Sherlock had determined Roberts could walk to while carrying an unconscious army doctor. Therefore, neither the factory, nor the nearby buildings were on the Lestrade's list to be searched. That range however, was arbitrary, only an estimate. And someone may have called for help. May have called for the police. In spite of the singing, that _did_ sound like John. It could have been his John. It could be that his John was injured and bound and unable to escaped his captors. His John crying for help. The very thought took Sherlock's breath away.

The consulting detective pulled his collar up, and tightened his blue scarf to keep the rain and sleet off his neck. He dashed out into the downpour, and ran up the street to where he could catch a taxi to take him to the long abandoned Samuel's and Son's shoe factory and the future site of the REI-1 industrial park.

.

* * *

Donovan was damp from chasing the consulting detective all night in the rain, and she was disgruntled at having lost him in the end. She sat across from her boss, both of them nursing hot coffee. Both of them were also sporting purple circles under their eyes from lack of sleep. They both wore day-old clothing. The only difference between the two, was that the detective inspector sported a two-day old growth of stubble.

"Oh don't beat yourself up, Donovan," said the detective inspector, drumming his nail-bitten fingers on his desk. "I'm honestly surprised that we held on to Sherlock as long as we did. He'll surface again, either smirking with Watson in tow or skulking back to us to see if any of our _'woefully inadequate'_ searches have borne fruit." Lestrade snorted, "And if he does come back for our help, he'll make it look like he's doing us a favor, the git."

Sally smiled bleakly but wasn't fooled. Her boss's concern was palpable, and it ate at her too. Lestrade handed her the most recent list of buildings that had been thoroughly searched-with no results, outside of official protests by some of the renters and landlords. She wearily shuffled over to the large map and began crossing off these buildings with a highlighter.

Without warning, Anderson burst into the room. Sally glared daggers at the pasty-faced man who had spent Christmas Day with his wife, while half the force (including Donovan) was out searching for the missing girls and Doctor John Watson.

"Lestrade," said Anderson urgently. "HE'S in the building. HE'll be here any second!"

"What? Who?" asked Donovan, looking around for signs of the Second Coming.

"Anderson! Out of the room then," snapped Lestrade. "You know how you set his teeth on edge. Sally, bring me all the latest reports on the search and…"

"No!" hissed Anderson. "She has to get out now. Send her on a, a…an errand, out on the search, anything. What if HE blames Sally for losing_ him_?"

"God, help us, Anderson's right," muttered the detective inspector. "Sally, go down to the lab with Anderson."

Donovan shook her head 'no'. "Sergeant, just do it. Anderson, get her out of here. And have Dana bring me in all the updates."

The forensics officer grabbed Sally Donovan's wrist, braving a possible mauling from the furious sergeant. As soon as the two left the room, Lestrade stood up. Using a window as a mirror, he combed his hair with his fingers and cleaned his teeth with a tissue. He tucked in his shirt and smoothed it down, in vain. He knocked back a couple of breath mints and took a deep breath.

The busy room outside his office became deathly quiet. It was the calm before the storm, thought Lestrade fatalistically.

There was a sharp rap on the door. A rap made by a wooden handle.

"Come ?" said Lestrade bravely.

A tall, urbane gentleman wearing a grey three-piece suit glided in to the office, his brolly gently swinging on his wrist. "Detective Inspector," said The British Government, who was, in fact, almost as imposing as the Second Coming. "I was distressed to learn that not only have we lost Doctor John Watson, now we have apparently lost Sherlock Holmes."

"Well," began Lestrade. "Look, I'm sorry, but Sherlock is actually an adult…"

"Tut, tut," tutted Mycroft Holmes, "no need for apology, Detective Inspector Lestrade."

Lestrade sputtered for a few seconds. He had not intended to apologize at all. "I have no intention of apologizing for Sherlock's refusal to work with us. You have the might of all of England behind you, and you can't control him. What makes you think I can stop him with a few officers of the law?"

"Point taken, Detective Inspector," said Mycroft Holmes with a hint of a smile. "Actually, I have come to offer my…assistance, my direct assistance in locating my sibling. It is clear that he will behave recklessly, until John Watson is located safely. Therefore, I would like to offer the use of the… ahh…now how did you put it? Ah, yes, the might of all of England, to facilitate your search efforts?"

Lestrade shook his head, thinking that some of Mycroft's assistance would have been useful when the girls first went missing. Still, Lestrade wasn't one to turn down any offers of assistance or, indeed, sources of information.

"Yeah. Well, you know I've been meaning to ask…about Sherlock and John?" asked the detective inspector suggestively, as he tapped into the vast resources of the British Government.

**A/N* **From the sea shanty 'Drunken Sailer.' I highly recommend the version by the Irish Rovers.

Harold and the Purple Crayon, by Crockett Johnson. One of my all time favorite children's books.

Old Yeller, by Fred Gipson. I was personally devastated by this story, which the public education system rudely foisted upon me. I mean there's tragedy... and then there's Old Yeller...And then there's SHERLOCK without JOHNLOCK! But that's another whole kettle of fish, and I am mixing up my rants and probably my metaphors.

Speaking of SHERLOCK. Hey, all you in the UK! And Europe! And people who are very clever with streaming video in the US! SHERLOCK 3! I am soooo green with envy!

Enough with the exclamations!

I will confess that I am so distracted by watching the first two seasons (and thus being brainwashed by Messers Moffat and Gatiss), that it is hard to write fanfic. But in the name of JOHNLOCK I shall try to persevere. BTW, while listening to ASIP I noticed that I _completely_ mangled Sally's accent. So please excuse the old incorrect accent in previous chapters which will eventually require editing (GACK! I hate re-editing old chapters)

I am listening to some sea shanties and folk songs even as I type. They are giving me strength to forge ahead…Except now I am thinking of Captain Aubry instead of Captain Watson. Wow, that gives me some scary fusion ideas.

Anyway…

This is where I thank everyone for reading, following and favoriting! **Thank you!**

Special thanks to my reviewers, DrGregor, dana-san, anyrei1, SamuelE8688. **Thank you!**

**Disclaimer** I don't own any rights to Sherlock and have shamelessly used the characters for fun and recreation.

**Happy New Year-Happy Season 3!**

**:D**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N** Very, very short update just to get things moving along.

Chapter the Sixth

Frankly John Watson was surprised that his escape plan actually seemed to be working. It probably meant that disaster was about to strike. Up until now, John had felt so _helpless_. Now, maybe he had a bit more power. Power to save his girls.

The doctor's emotions swung wildly, from self-doubt to exhilaration, and John fought the wild urge to just fling himself straight out of the window. Only a strong sense of duty and a small bit of common sense slowed him down.

The former army captain took a couple of breaths then pursed his lips, nodding.

"Em? Lizzy?" said Captain John sternly. "I need you to pay attention here."

His two charges looked away from the cage lying on the floor and up at him with very large eyes.

"Right," said John, suddenly nervous about leaving the girls, even for a few minutes. "Now listen, and follow my instructions to the letter. And that means you do exactly what I say, Lizzy. Okay?"

Inexplicably, John felt himself choking up. Probably just sleep deprivation, he decided.

"Okay then, I'm going to use the rope to get out. Then I'll come up, unlock the door and get both of you," said John, turning his smile up a few degrees. "It's possible that you might hear me rattling at the door or banging on it. So remember, it's just me... so don't get worried, yeah?"

They nodded but looked very worried. Em chewed on a bit of her so-called braid, and Lizzy's lips trembled. Lisbeth was heading for towards a wobbly.  
"This is just going to take a few minutes, okay?" said John. "I want you to wait under the blankets. Lizzy you keep your scarf and shoes on. Keep them on the whole time." said John, shaking his finger like his mother used to do. "If I can't get the doors open; we'll go to plan B. Plan B is I climb back up the rope, and then bring you down one by one. So no worries, right?"

He tried not to dwell on the risks of climbing down a rope, which had been made from strips bedding. But in fact the risks, in order of increasing likelihood, were the rope breaking, the rope untying itself, John's hands slipping and…

The former army captain shook his head to remove his negative thoughts. They certainly were not helping at all.

He turned and tied the rope to the very sturdy metal pipe, which had resisted his escape attempts earlier. He figured it must be strong enough to support his weight, if he hadn't been able to wear it down.

Now that he thought about it, the fact that this section of pipe might not support his weight was a fourth potential drawback to using the rope. And wasn't it a good thing, that John wasn't dwelling on the risks or getting nervous or anything?

"Are you coming back for sure, Johnny?" asked Em, her brown eyes wide.

Right. Now the girls were going to break his heart. John knelt down despite his dodgy knee. "I am definitely coming back. I'll only be gone for a few minutes, yeah?" He clumsily gathered his girls in for a hug.

The blond ex-army elf, in his tattered, green suit, stood. He took a deep, steadying breath, to ready himself for his mission.

"And now you two, get under those blankets," They sat, backs up against the wall. He covered them and tucked down the edges. "Yeah, nice and comfy? It's Quiet Time, all right? You just wait here, I'll be back before you know it."

The former soldier hoisted himself onto the windowsill. He threw one leg over the ledge and gave the girls another smile and a thumbs-up. Lizzy looked at him tearfully. Emily smiled back at him, trying to be brave.

He dropped his all-purpose copper pipe down to the ground. The pipe rang loudly as it hit, disturbing the pigeons, which flew up in a dithering grey cloud. No one else responded to the noise. 'Note to self," he muttered, "try not to make so much noise."

He gripped the rope and pulled his other leg over the ledge. He slid slowly over the edge, finding that he really didn't like heights that much. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly. "Another note to self, don't look down." He hung from the rope hand over hand, and then began lowering himself down. His shoulder was not pleased.

In the cold and damp, his hands slipped (drawback number 3), and he slid partway, cursing at the burn.

He jumped the last three feet to stop the stinging in his hands. It jarred his knees, but otherwise, John landed safely. He wiped his hands on his ridiculous tights, picked up his handy copper pipe and yelled, "Girls, sit tight. I'll be back in a jiffy."

* * *

Sherlock's eyes were glued to the tiny Google map on his mobile. It showed the streets that were included within in the demolition site for the future REI-1 project. He memorized the layout, listing the extant buildings in his mind palace:

'_Beginning at__ the Samuels shoe factory, on one side is the bank, really just a shell as I recall. Across the street is the Gregor Factory. It once made packaged biscuits but went out of business when the CEO…irrelevant data, never mind. To the east stands The Fraser-Clark Building, which a historical society wants to preserve, causing the delay in the demolition, which in turn makes this site particularly well-suited for holding hostages. And then finally, there are some shops and the condemned block of flats to the west and south_.'

'_Tom heard the voice/voices near but not in the Samuels shoe factory. Still, the most secure location to hold prisoners would be in one of these factories. A factory would have thicker walls, fewer windows, metal doors. There would also be fewer run-ins with squatters or addicts who would likely choose the more comfortable tenenments…Although I can't rule out the bank…No. no. Remember, its a shell. CONCENTRATE. The safe was removed years ago, and there have been two fires set in the bank since then… So, the Gregor Factory it is.'_

'_And John is no doubt handcuffed or tied up or drugged. If he is conscious, he will be waiting for me. He knows that I will come. He knows this…'_

The consulting detective exited his mind palace and looked around. This cab ride was taking forever, his fingers danced nervously on his knee.

The taxi moved slowly through the Boxing Day traffic. Shoppers thronged at the shops, in spite of the rain. Traffic stopped altogether, as cars vied for parking spots and the drivers frowned with their traditional holiday ire.

Sherlock's lips curled in frustration, at the delay, and in contempt, with all these normal people with their normal little concerns, their arms full of normal packages.

And yet again the traffic stopped for a mass of humanity, who all wanted to see the opening of The Chimera at the same time. So dull and such a waste of space!

The cab finally pulled out of the congestion and into a more rundown, less populous section of London. Their speed picked up. Soon, the consulting detective was tossing some bills at the barely competent cabbie.

He was let out one block away from the demolition site, to avoid alerting any of Roberts's possible accomplices. The main gate bore a sign,

**The Future Home of the REI-1 Industrial Park. **

_**REI-1: Building a strong economy for a strong tomorrow.**_

Stupid advertisement. The sign blocked Sherlock's view of the shoe factory. There was actually a guard, a nominal guard, in the shack, reading a paper. Security was clearly incompetent. Or, it was possible that the guard was also an accomplice.

Sherlock passed to one side, avoiding security altogether. The detective began looking for an illicit 'side entrance'. He soon found the faint tracks, which led into the construction site, seemingly right through the fence. Even with the rain, it was a clear path to Sherlock Holmes. Closer inspection revealed that the fence had been cut loose and then re-secured with wire.

His attention was briefly drawn away to a cloud of pigeons circling overhead. Sherlock scouted a bit further to look for any other clues, but found nothing of interest in the fog and mist. He returned to the ersatz gate and pulled the fencing open.

A loud bang rang out. Loud, but not a gunshot…it had been enough to thoroughly disturb the birds. The flocks circled high and wide, passing directly over the consulting detective.

The site was supposed to be empty, and it clearly was not empty. The game was on.

**A/N** Sorry for such a short up date. Next chapter will be longer and much more interesting.

**BTW SEASON 3...ARGHHHHH!**

**Thank you- **Thank you for reading, following or favoriting you are the reason I write at all.

**Thank you- **Thank you for reviewing, I love reviews as much as JOhn (yes JOhn not John) loves tea *snigger/blush* Thank you to SamuelE8688, anyrei1, Erenem, InuChimera7410, DrGregor and power0girl.

**Reminder-**anyrei1's fantastic drawing based on this fic can be seen at her Tumblr account (anyrei). Please go check it out. It is too adorable. (My apologies go out to JOhn and Sherlock who probably don't realize that they are, in fact, adorable,)

WHOOPS! Almost forgot the ritual disclaimer which will magically prevent me from litigation. I do not own rights to anything Sherlockian (including, but not limited, to the adorable JOhn and Sherlock.)


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N **Cliffhanger alert. Proceed with caution or wait until chapter eight is posted :D

**Chapter the Seventh**

Rain quickly soaked John, but it did not wash away his excitement. Some sleet had fallen too, enough to leave slush on the broken pavement and enough to chill John to the bone. It was hard to see very far, but John could see a high fence blocking both ends of the street.

Then it hit him, this must be a construction site. Or to be more precise, a demolition site. No wonder there were no people. No wonder there were no cars at all. This was the perfect location to hide two kidnapped children and one elf. No one would find them here...unless John got moving and helped the girls escape.

The ex-army elf began scouting around the building, looking for a door. Clearly this had once been a factory.

The dead quiet made John nervous. He reassured himself, yet again, that everything was fine. He listened for threats but only heard the hissing sound of the rain and sleet hitting the pavement and the cooing of the pigeons, which had begun to return to their nests.

Around the next side, John found the main entrance. And he found footprints in the slush, which were already being washed away by the rain.

Oh God...there were footprints, leading into the building holding his girls. John sucked in a deep breath, and his chest clenched with fear.

He tore up the three wide steps and threw open a door with a resounding crash, which resounded amidst the deserted buildings. He didn't notice the panicked pigeons, which erupted back up into the weeping sky.

He ran through another set of double door and then gazed out at a factory floor. There were still boxes and crates scattered about, as if packaging had stopped mid-shift. A sagging conveyor belt snaked its way through the debris filled floor.

Very little light came in through the filthy, broken skylights above him. Still, John could make out the fresh prints, which led to a set of metal stairs, which led upwards. The building was eerily quiet, broken only by John's harsh breaths.

The ex-soldier gripped his ersatz truncheon tightly and took the stairs two and a time. Every step he took, rang out loudly, echoing in the cavernous space. He bypassed the catwalks; his charges were on the third floor and he knew that's where the footprints were leading.

* * *

Sherlock followed some very recent tracks, which led to the back of the shoe factory. Here, the tracks split up; three sets of prints entered the abandoned factory following an established path through a fire exit. The door appeared secure, although Sherlock's cursory glance revealed that the lock was a sham.

Two more people had continued to the next narrow street and then they split up again, one person going to the left and one, a much larger, heavier man to the right.

Three people going into the building, two apparently scouting around the former shoe factory? Something important was happening in there. Sherlock became convinced that John was being held in here and not in the Gregor factory. He needed to investigate.

Sherlock listened at the door and then slowly opened it. The metal door glided silently open on well-oiled hinges. This _was_ a frequently used site then. The consulting detective quietly entered the building.

Sherlock decided that it was time to bring in Lestrade, even if he brought along his bumbling cohorts. Suspecting that the Yard would be more concerned over the welfare of the missing children, the consulting detective devised his message accordingly.

**On trail of 3 possible accomplices of Roberts. Samuel and Sons Shoes/ REI-1 construction site. 2 more men patrolling the site. Come? SH**

**Don't trust security guard. Reads rubbish. SH**

* * *

"Bloody Hell!" yelled Lestrade, causing PC Dana to spill coffee on top of some files. The beet-red rookie began trying to mop up the coffee with tissues.

"Oh, don't fuss, Dana. Just…Just get Donovan in here," said Lestrade, trying to put his coat on and make a phone call at the same time.

"No. It's important," he all but yelled into the phone. "Look, if I can't talk to him, I need to talk with Erin Emm," Lestrade said, successfully shoving his arm into the wrong sleeve.

Donovan, trailed by PC Dana, ran into the DI's office and saw his coat fiasco. She instantly deduced that they were about to leave any minute now.

"Dana, go get my coat. And yours!" she ordered the rookie, who had to retreat yet again. "Firth! Round up...oh, I dunno, two teams. I think we're heading out any mi'ute," Sally shouted to the Yarders who had begun to gather outside the door. She stood by, waiting for definitive instructions from her boss and the chance to grab his coat from him, before he did himself permanent damage.

"Ms Emm!" said Lestrade loudly. "What took so... No, sorry, forget that," said Lestrade. "Look your boss's brother is at it again. He's tracking at least three suspects at the old Samuel and Sons factory… Yeah, that's right. So I'll need warrants like five minutes ago."

"Donovan," he whispered loudly, "get at least a two teams together. And have backup ready, once we know more," Donovan rolled her eyes and pulled his coat off his arm. The DI turned back to his phone, "No, it's abandoned...yeah… Yeah. That's right. Scheduled for demolition in couple weeks. Been held up by a historical society…Yeah, the factory is in the parcel belonging to REI-1."

Donovan held the coat out for her boss, who was now able to slip it on.

"Donovan," he whispered again. "Get Juhlar on the line, if this is where the girls are being held, we'll pro'bly need him. At least, I want his Firearms Team on stand-by…Yeah, Ms, Emm. Good, great… Yeah. Warrants for the whole site, even better…Thanks."

"Come on, Donovan! My 'contact' is getting the warrants and will meet us there," The detective inspector tugged on her sleeve to make her hurry faster. "Bout time the Holmes connection was useful," he muttered.

"Meet us, where?" asked Donovan, following him out into the main room. Everyone waited expectantly, most had on their coats.

"Listen up, everyone! We're going to be moving in on the kidnapper. I hope… And we have to move quietly, no sirens. We've a tip that at least three suspects are holding the Berry girls at the REI-1 demolition site. Now aside from looking out for the hostages, which includes Doctor Watson…Sherlock Holmes is in there," several pairs of eyes rolled. "He's our tipster. It goes without saying that we'll need to exercise extreme caution…"

* * *

John ran down the short hall, passing a shut door and an empty office. He was about to turn the corner, when he remembered running face first into Roberts's fist the other night.

John dropped into a crouch as he skidded thorough the turn, his pipe at the ready. The knife passed harmlessly over his head, and he crashed headfirst into the chest of the pasty-faced youth. John scrambled backwards, away from the wildly swinging knife.

Still on his knees, the ex-soldier swung his pipe up and then down on the younger man's arm. The knife clattered to the floor, as the youth grabbed his arm and howled. John kicked the knife aside and wrenched the lanky man's arms behind him. The twenty something-ish punk put up no real struggle. He did continue to cry and yell, before the elf gagged him with his own raggedy muffler.

John was irritated with the sniveling man and frightened for his girls, but he took the time to properly neutralize his captive. He used young pasty face's belt to tie his hands behind him.

Then the ex-soldier rifled through his captive's pockets for a phone or another weapon, but only found a thin wallet and some cigarettes.

The youth was still moaning and struggling feebly.

"You shut it," growled John. "I'll hurt you a lot worse 'n that if you don't answer my questions. Just nod or shake your head. Did you come here for me?" The younger man vigorously shook his head, no.

"You here for the girls?"

A nod yes.

"You here with Roberts?"

No

"Don't lie to me dammit or I'll make you sorry," snapped John. He was in too big of a hurry to play games, so he pulled down the gag. "Well, answer me!"

"No, No. Roberts is off the streets. You gotta let me go. It hurts…"

"Then how'd you know where we were? Who sent you?" asked John." How many more are with you? Where are they?" growled John, holding up his pipe. "And where's your phone? Give me your phone!"

"Hold on. Hold on. I can only anser one a' a time. I don' gots a phone, now do I? Honest, mister. M'old lady took m'phone!"

John glared his doubt from beneath his lowered brows. He waved his slightly bent copper pipe threateningly.

John Watson looked rather deranged and, to the youth, dangerous in his ripped, filthy elf-outfit and and filthy, makeshift shemagh.

"The boss, Rolls, we calls him. Rolls, as in Rolls Royce?" the kid smiled ingratiatingly despite his pallor. 'Yeah, so the Rolls says he's talkin' wif his mouf-piece…

"With who?" asked John. His forehead was deeply furrowed, as he desperately tried to put this all together.

"Wif his mouf-piece, Roberts's mouf-piece!"

"Mouf…piece? Solicitor? You mean his solicitor?" asked John.

"Yeah! Tha's what I said," said the youth belligerently.

"And?" said John, his eyes hard.

"You made me forgit what I's sayin'," muttered the young man sullenly.

Since it was working so well, John raised his pipe again.

"I'm thinkin'. I'm thinking'. What you s'posed to be anyway?" he asked the short, mean, green-clad man.

John ignored the insulting and potentially embarrassing question. "Okay, so Rolls talked to Roberts's solicitor," summarized John, rubbing his chin to keep from yelling. "And then you were sent here to…"

"Oh yeah. Me an Paddy's s'posed to collect the girls and take 'em back to Rolls."

John felt his blood congeal. He had to get his girls out of here. Now. He let go of his captive's arm and snatched up the knife. He opened the last door at the end of the hall. It was Roberts's room. The room where John woke up and started this nightmare.

"Right, so where the heck is this Paddy, and where exactly is Roberts? Wait, is he in custody? And just what were you planning to do with me?" asked John, dragging the youth into main room.

"I dunno what Rolls wants t'do wif you. Anyways, tha' was Paddy's job. Paddy, he'll be here any minute. An th' others is 'cross the street wif Rolls. You know wha? You should mebbe start running now, 'fore they gets here." said young insulting pasty-face. "Hey, you can't tie me to tha chair. You hurtin' my arm. I need help. I need a doctor!"

"I am a doctor." John muzzled him. "Too bad for you… I'm having a bad day." He closed the switch blade, and shoved it in his tights.

John ran over to the metal door. He could hear grizzling on the other side. "It's me! It's Johnny!" John threw the first bolt. "Have you out…" He threw the second bolt. "in a jiffy." He wiggled the lock and threw open the door.

John ran in. He kissed Emily's head and then scooped up Lizzy who buried her face in his left shoulder.

"Lizzy, put your legs around my waist and your arms around my neck. That's a good girl; now hold on tight." John looked down at the ten-year old. "You're going to be brave Em, yeah? I need you to stay right with me, the whole time. And you'll be fine. You'll both be fine."

Holding Lisbeth, John led Emily out into the main room.

"Johnny, who's that?" squeaked Emily.

"Bad guy," answered John hurrying forward. "He's waiting for the police Em. Just ignore him."

"Okay. So we're in a bit of a hurry, Em," said John, rushing the girls into the hall. "If I tell you to run, you run. If I have to…well, if I have to…fight someone and I tell you to run…then you take Lizzy and run and hide."

They crept down the hall; John had his all-purpose pipe at the ready and Lizzy in his other arm. Emily clung to his tunic with one tight fist. At the end of the hall, John poked his head around the corner, listening in the factory's twilight.

The blond pursed his lips and headed quietly down the steps. This time he made an effort to be silent. The worn elf boots would have been quite good for stealth, except that they were soaking wet. So John squelched softly with each step that he took.

Emily followed him, quiet as the proverbial mouse. Only Lizzy made a sound as she snuffled softly into John's bad shoulder. Once they made it to the main doors, John peered around. No fresh tracks.. The sky was leaden-grey, but the rain had stopped, at least for now.

"Come on, Em," he said, hurrying down the rain slick steps to the cracked pavement.

The girls shrieked in unison when a large, bearded man stepped around the corner of the building. John's blue eyes widened and then rolled in disbelief, things just kept getting worse and worse.

'Paddy?' wondered John. Who cares? Whoever he was; he brandished another knife, a huge knife. A damn machete for God's sake, thought the doctor.

"No." he said, "No-oo. Dammit, just, no!" the pitch and volume escalated in his frustration.

The man now known as Paddy to John, lumbered forward, slowly gaining speed like a locomotive. The girls screamed continuously.

John tried to put Lizzy down, but she clutched him tightly. He had to meet the first attack, with her still clinging on to him for dear life. He dodged giant blade and swung his pipe, just missing his burly attacker.

John somehow shoved the sobbing five-year old into the arms of her sister, as the locomotive turned around. The blond elf swung the pipe just in time to block the knife. Metal rang on metal, and the knife left an angry score on John's favorite weapon.

The former soldier slowly danced backwards, dodging the knife and leading his assailant out into the street, away from John's girls. He swung his pipe threateningly, but Paddy was not so easily impressed.

The huge man holding his huge knife began to chuckle. "I'll deal with you later, little man," said Paddy. "I got work t'do."

Dismissing the dancing elf as a non-threat, he turned to the little girls huddled on the steps; their shrieking rose in volume.

John roared, "Nooo!" and attacked.

* * *

**A/N** I did warn you about the cliffhanger. Chapter eight is almost done anyway; so do not despair.

Don't miss anyrei1's lovely cover art (and lots of other good stuff too). Google **anyrei/Tumblr** to find it or see my postings on tumblr. It is beautiful JOHNLOCK and we all ship JOHNLOCK, yeah.

**Thank you** for reading my story. My thanks to everyone who has followed or favorited this fic.

**HUGE THANKS** to those who sent me the equivalent of tea and biscuits by reviewing. Thanks to:DrGregor, SamuelE8688, anyrei1, Erenem,InuChimera7410, Imogen. fraserclark, starrysummernights

**Disclaimer** I do not own the rights to SHERLOCK.

**BTW Season 3. WOW! **(I'll say no more to avoid spoilers) but, **WOW!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Warning**: Some violence. Rated M. Some threats to children. Extreme fluff to make it all better (at the end).

Please forgive my sloppy editing. It was post today with limited proofing or wait until Monday.

**Addendum**: OKAY. I should have waited, below is the second revision. Please alert me to errors I have missed and I will re-revise again. (more haste, less speed...or is it less haste, more speed?)

**Possible Spoiler Alert**-A couple semi-quotes stolen from Sherlock Season 3 (TSoT) are in the last eight paragraph/sentences. If you consider this a Spoiler, avoid the very end of this chapter.

**Chapter the Eighth**

Even in the dark, the trail of muddy footprints was a beacon for the consulting detective. Sherlock Holmes stalked silently to the front of the building and found his quarry in the former Samuels factory showroom.

Two men, (thirtyish, day-old clothes, bad teeth, both drank too much, one an addict) sat on the countertop as they smoked. The third was a tall black man wearing a tailored navy-blue suit and three tasteful gold rings (married, with a mistress… no with a gigolo. A successful drug dealer, now moving up in the world) He delicately sipped a large gourmet coffee while negotiating stock trades on his newly acquired iphone 5s.

Sherlock scanned the otherwise empty room. His lips flattened, and his eyes narrowed. There was no sign of John Watson or the Berry children. The men had clearly only been there for several minutes. There no evidence that anyone had been imprisoned here.

This was a rendezvous point, not a hideout. Sherlock would have to investigate the rest of the building, but he suddenly felt certain that he would not find John in here.

Biting back bitter disappointment, the consulting detective drifted back into the shadows. He crept into the hall checking the empty storerooms and offices.

Suddenly high-pitched shrieks of terror erupted from outside. The consulting detective heard clattering and thuds as the three men tore out of the building. Sherlock, his coat flying behind him, ran to first one and then a second blocked exit.

The consulting detective hit Lestrade's speed dial button on his mobile, leaving a one-word text.

**HURRY **

Sherlock kicked the jammed exit open, and ran out blinking into the seemingly bright fog. He followed the sounds of fighting]: grunts, growling and muttered curses, the sound of John yelling.

Then he heard John groan loudly and in pain, and suddenly, he could hardly breathe as he ran to the end of the street.

* * *

"Dammit, Emily! Run!" gasped John. "Run!"

"Dammit!" squeaked Emily, "Run, Lizzy!" Then she dragged her sister down the cracked, broken sidewalk.

John dove into the back of the big man's knees, knocking him to the wet pavement with a noisy "Oomph". The almost-machete clattered to the ground. well out of reach.

John swung his truncheon as Paddy turned and tried to stand. The pipe missed Paddy's head and crashed down on the man's shoulder, eliciting a rolling growl from the burly man.

Oh good, thought John, now I've made him angry. Paddy was up, and his meaty hand grabbed a hold of John's pipe, wrenching it out of John's grasp.

Then he fumbled for John's throat. The smaller blond landed several punches, which didn't seem to faze the Goliath who was steadily choking him. The former soldier dug out his own knife as his vision faded. He swung blindly with the open switch blade. The silver blade flashed brightly in the grey mist. John swiped at the man's arm, slicing deeply into flesh.

The huge bearded man grunted and dropped his captive. Growling again, he lunged for John's knife. They wrestled for the weapon. John still nominally held the knife in his fist, but John's wrist was in the steely grip of the enraged giant. The sharp blade sliced John's tunic and then opened up his arm.

A loud groan escaped John's lips. The doctor dropped the knife. As Paddy reached for John's fallen blade, the battle-elf broke away and scuttled backwards. The blond's breaths sounded harsh and ragged in the empty street. The man looked at John and then at the girls fleeing into the alley. He hesitated a moment too long.

The blond elf snatched up his all-purpose pipe and scrambled up. He feinted with his pipe, and as Paddy turned to John with the knife, John landed a punch on the side of his head. The shock of the blow was excruciating with his wound, and John hissed and cursed.

But the big man stumbled, grabbing John's shoulders painfully. The blond elf couldn't keep this up. It had to end, now. Swinging with all his remaining strength, John smashed the pipe against the giant's head.

Paddy crumpled slowly, his entire weight dropping on the ex-army doctor like a slow-motion avalanche.

For a moment, John entertained the idea of just passing out. It would be so easy; no more pain, no more fighting his excruciating exhaustion. However, it was really hard to breathe under this mountain of flesh, and it didn't smell very good either.

And then there were the girls, Em and Lizzy. He had to find his girls.

John shoved the unconscious man to the side, and wormed his way out from under the mass.

Crawling to his knees, he saw three more men, one dressed to the nines, trotting toward him. One had pulled out a knife, which was not surprising considering how John's day had been going.

John sagged until he was kneeling in the wet road. He bit his lip and shook his head with a very quiet moan, as if that would make the nightmare disappear.

It was no use. He was already spent. How could he fight the three of them?

It didn't matter. He slowly began to drag himself to a stand, because he had to fight them. There was no other way. Maybe if he led them into the factory…

"You have thirty seconds to tell me where they are, or Raj, here, gets to play with his knife," sneered the handsome black leader. They were all much closer to John than he had realized. "Raj is a real artist, with his knife…"

"I doubt that very much. Anyway, there won't be any time for that now," said Sherlock Holmes. "I should point out that if any of you make the slightest move toward my blogger, I will happily shoot you. As one of his movie heroes quips, 'Go on and make my day for me'."

John bit his lip. Raj dropped his knife and held up his hands. The black man darted forward towards John and was shot in his leg, by a smiling detective. The third man was already running. Within seconds, he ran right into the eager arms of Scotland Yard.

John looked at his handsome flat mate, "Actually Sherlock, he says, "Go ahead, make my day" said John. The bleeding gang leader clutched his leg and rocked back and forth, groaning in anguish.

"What?" asked Sherlock.

Police were suddenly all over the place, handcuffing Raj and the leader and calling for the medics. Lestrade was shouting orders over the chaos.

"Dirty Harry says, "Go ahead, make my day," not "go on whatever, whatever", said John . He flapped his hand dismissively and took a few very stiff steps. "You said it wrong." The doctor added, and then he repeated it, because Sherlock was looking at him peculiarly. "You got it wrong."

He turned and wrinkled his brow at the dizziness. He needed to find his girls…

He vaguely heard Sherlock asking him something. He definitely heard Lestrade yelling, seemingly at everyone. Sally Donovan was in his face and shaking a finger at him.

John's mouth tightened, and he resolutely pushed past Donovan, brushing her shoulder. He stumbled toward the alley, because he sort of remembered his girls running that way…

"John, I have you," said a deep baritone voice. John was on the ground again, his head and shoulders leaning against the chest of the World's Only Consulting Detective.

"No," protested John.

"John, it's fine. I have you," Sherlock said quietly. Then he yelled, "Where are the damned medics? He's bleeding…"

"No. Emily. Em and Lizzy," John swallowed his panic. "It's just a tiny cut. I have to find them…"

"No, John, you are not going anywhere," said Sherlock, struggling to hold his blogger down.

"Sherlock, we have to go find them. Now!" yelled John, voice rising with his panic. The former army doctor tried to get up again, pushing away the medic

"John!" shouted Sherlock, cutting through John's panic. John Watson actually looked at him, panting but at least concentrating on Sherlock. "If you sit still. If you let the medics take care of your arm. I will find them. Where…"

"Alley," snapped John, pointing.

"I already have men looking there," said Donovan. "So far they haven't seen…"

"I will locate them, John," said the consulting detective, ignoring Sergeant Donovan.

"Find them for me, Sherlock. Please."begged John.

"I will. I will be back in ten minutes," said the tall brunet.

John looked into Sherlock's silver-grey eyes. Yes, okay, Sherlock would find the girls. John nodded and relaxed, and he stopped swinging at the medic, at least for now.

* * *

Of course the Yarders had already managed to trample all the evidence. That's why it took at least five extra minutes for Sherlock to find the correct coal chute. Still, the signs were obvious, and he could clearly hear the child whimpering, once he shouted and made the other idiots shut up.

"Here, let me have a go; you'll just scare 'em like last time," said Sally Donovan scathingly.

"Hello, Emily, Elisabeth? My name is Sally. Can you hear me?" she asked. The grizzling increased.

"Keep on talking to them, Donovan," urged Lestrade. "We have a team going round the front…"

"Which has collapsed," said Sherlock bored. The case was all but solved and he wanted to get back to John. He had peeked out of the alley twice. John sat in the back of the ambulance. His arm was already bandaged, apparently the wound was in fact not severe. Of course John was arguing with the medic…

"It's no good; they're too traumatized," said Sally. "Maybe… if we can widen the opening?"

"How? How do you propose to do that without bringing the building down on top of them. Idiots! You are all idiots!" snapped Sherlock. "Bring their parents here. Why aren't their parents here? Most children respond positively to their parents. Or bring John over here. They may be familiar with…"

"Johnny? Do you know Johnny? Is Johnny okay?" asked a voice from the bottom of the chute.

"Yeah, yeah, o'course he's okay," agreed Donovan. "He'll just have to answer some questions and prove he wasn't part of the plot…"

"Oh for God's sake!" Shouted Sherlock. "John was a victim. He was fighting for his life in front of you! How stupid are you?"

"I don't have to listen to this," said Sergeant Donovan. "And I am only following protocol. I don't actually think John Watson is…"

"You are an idiot," pronounced the consulting detective. "You have clearly suffered irreparable brain damage from your illicit liaisons with Anderson. I have always warned everyone that his idiocy was contagious."

"Are you the Great Detective?" asked the voice more loudly. The adults went quiet.

"I said, are you The Great Detective? Johnny's friend?"

Lestrade smiled, while most of his team rolled their eyes.

Sherlock smoothed down the front of his long coat and cleared his throat, before bending down at the opening.

"Yes. I am Sherlock Holmes. John Watson is my friend. However, he doesn't like to be called Johnny," said Sherlock, sending a smug look Sally Donovan's way. "Are you Emily or Elizabeth?"

"I'm Emily. And Lisbeth doesn't like to be called Elizabeth. And Johnny Elf _said _we could call him Johnny. And he said you were always rude, but that he loved you anyway. And you really are rude, aren't you?"

Several surprising statements had emanated from the coal bin. Sherlock blinked but otherwise hid his surprise. "Emily," interrupted the great detective. "Clearly we have much to discuss. However, the police are getting agitated, predictably. It would be best if you and your sister would allow me to pull you out?"

"Okay. But just you, I don't know the others. Here's Lisbeth's hand. Remember to call her Lisbeth. And don't be rude any more because she'll tell Johnny."

* * *

John made his way unsteadily toward the alleyway. He'd have been fine, or almost fine, but he'd stupidly agreed to the pain medication. Maybe it was making him a bit loopy. He rubbed his eyes and blinked ponderously. The alley moved a bit in front of the blond former army elf. Yes, he was certainly loopy.

Inexplicably, catcalls and whistles followed John's progress. He pursed his lips but was unable to understand why the Yarders were acting so weird.

At least he'd convinced that loud and annoying medic to leave him alone, after the cut on his arm was dressed. It was too bad that John had been forced to utter some threats, but he needed to find Em and Lizzy.

"Look at that Christmas pudding shake!" shouted someone.

What Christmas pudding, wondered John? They were all a bit loopy too. Maybe that medic was forcing his medication on everyone. The short, green-clad doctor decided that he didn't know, or care, what they were on about. The ex-army elf marched forward unevenly, forcing his eyes to focus on the alley. He just wanted to find his girls.

Sherlock, looking insufferably smug, stepped out of the dark alley with a little girl holding each of his hands. As soon as they saw John, they shrieked, pulled their hands free and ran toward him.

John shrieked a little too, a huge grin splitting his face. He crouched down, and they tackled him, knocking him onto his very popular posterior.

The former army elf sat happily on the cold, wet pavement. Em, clinging to his injured arm, was telling John how rude the Great Detective was to someone named Sally, who was rude too. Lizzy had clamped her arms around John's neck again. She pleaded with Johnny Elf to take her home or at least to get her the orange shock blankets, which had featured so prominently in his stories.

"Now, now, Mister Watson, you are not dressed for this weather," said the loud and annoying medic, who had followed John after all.

"He's hardly dressed at all! Did you get a look at his bum?" someone called out.

"Who said that?" sputtered Lestrade, who had followed behind the consulting detective. "Donovan! I want a name and...and a badge number. This is a crime scene! There are children present and, and…"

"And I will deal with anyone who chooses to offer any other comments about _Doctor_ Watson," said the narrow-eyed consulting detective in a deep, rumbling voice.

"Sherlock, you shut it!" snapped Lestrade. "I already told you; you're way out of line. You can not go around making threats."

The consulting detective ignored the detective inspector. Sherlock silently scanned the crowd of emergency responders silently issuing promises of retribution. Then he turned his attention to his blogger, who was buried under little pink girls.

"John, do stand up," suggested the consulting detective. "I'm sure that it's not good for you to be sitting in a puddle of water, half-dressed in winter."

"Sh'lock, I'm shtuck and I can't get up," announced John, smiling obviously. "Here, gie me a hand."

The brunet couched down and studied his grinning blogger, noting John's slightly unfocused eyes. Sherlock pressed his lips together and then sighed. Seeing that John was in fact, high as a kite, he knew he'd need some assistance getting his elf doctor up off the ground, so enlisted Lestrade's assistance.

John was eventually pushed and pulled to a stand, with help from Lestrade. The small human limpet, named Lisbeth, clung to John the entire time.

"This is nice," said John to no one in particular, as he swayed in place and shivered.

"And then me and Lizzy ran like you told us to…" continued Em, who had been talking to John non-stop. "Then I spied with my little eye a black box on the ground and Lizzy and I fit inside and we went down this slide…"

"John, I think the medics want you to get into the ambulance…" began Lestrade.

"Johnny doesn't like amblaces," announced Lizzy to John's shoulder.

"No he doesn't," said Emily firmly. She was put out that Lizzy had announced this vital piece of information before she could.

"Yes. No. Yes…Yes, I don't like ambulances," agreed John nodding vigorously and then shaking his head. He furrowed his brow as he concentrated intently. "I don't much like that medic, neither. He gave me waaaaaay too much of something."

"Pain medication, Mister Watson," said the medic. "And of course, it was the right dose."

"Ha!" scoffed John, almost falling. Then he muttered, "Maybe it was the right dose for a great elephant like you."

John frowned as the tilted back and forth. Bit not good, thought the doctor. "Lizzy, you'll have to let Sherlock hold you now; Johnny's legs are sleepy."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose alarmingly, but the five-year old was handed over to him. Sherlock and Lisbeth eyed each other cautiously. She remained stiff, as he held her awkwardly at arms length. Then Lestrade offered to hold her and she collapsed against Sherlock's shoulder, hiding her face in the Belstaff coat.

"The girls want orange shock blankets, and some tea would be nice," John told anyone who would listen.

"Sir, what we want, is to get them in the ambulance," said the medic to the detective inspector. "But Mister Watson is being uncooperative."

"And iss your own fault I'm uncoprative. 'Cause you gave me too mush med'cine. I told you…I told him. Half the dose is all I need. Is all I ever need. I am com-pact and I need smaller do-ses," Said John, hanging precariously on Sherlock's free arm.

"You know what, just go get the blankets," urged Lestrade. "Before he becomes hypothermic. Before they all become hypothermic."

"I'm good," said John brightly. "Sherlock will keep me warm." He threw his arms around the consulting detective. Lights flashed as camera phones were utilized by half the force. Sherlock turned around so that John's face, at least, was hidden.

A lovely brunet, wearing a tailored beige trench coat approached. "Hello, Detective Inspector. I have your warrants, as promised, and I see that I'll be able to report that the operation was a success."

"Oh, yeah," said Lestrade, taking the paperwork. "Thank you, these'll come in handy when the solicitors start bleating about their client's rights," said Lestrade. "Oh, sorry. Ms. Emm this is…"

"Ms Emm?" asked JOhn stumbling away from his support.

"Yeah, Ms Erin Em, this is Doctor John Watson the hero of the hour along with our heroines Miss Emily Berry and her sister Elizabeth Berry…"

"Lisbeth! Her name is Lisbeth," interjected John and Emily simultaneously.

"And you can't be Ms. Emememem," said JOhn. "You're Anthea. I remember dis-tinkly from when you kidnapped me…"

"You'll have to excuse Doctor Watson," apologized Lestrade. "He's having an un-expected reaction to pain medication."

"I was over dose-ed. Pure and simple," said John standing precariously on his dignity.

"Oh this is getting so tedious," complained Sherlock. "The woman has a different name every week. She probably doesn't even remember her real name. Why _are _you here _Erin Emm_? My toad of a brother sent you for a reason."

"Always a pleasure Mr. Holmes," she said smiling. "I was sent with the warrants. And I am to tell you that the girl's parents will be here in approximately ten minutes."

"And you are here checking up on me and reporting to my brother," finished the great detective.

Emily tugged on his sleeve and whispered, "You're doing it again."

His brows crinkled questioningly.

"You're being rude," she whispered.

"Yes, well that is _what I do_," he whispered back, but without his usual acid. "And what on earth are you trying to hide Lestrade? What? Are those secret instructions from my brother?"

Lestrade blushed and stammered as he slid an envelope into his pocket.

"Sherlock, did'ja miss me," asked John out of the blue. He may have been loopy, but he had a fairly good idea of what Lestrade was hiding. He just couldn't come up with a better diversion. So he batted his eyes and said, "I missed you."

"Ah. Sentiment. Well…" said Sherlock. "Well, John you should be pleased, here are the shock blankets."

Ms Emm, aka Anthea, and Lestrade had to help both Emily and John wrap up in their warm blankets. John's blanket in particular kept sliding off.

Once Lizzy was wrapped up in her blanket she began to fall asleep on Sherlock's shoulder. Several Yarder's took advantage of the photo opportunity.

After a whispered conversation with Lestrade, Erin Emm left. Sherlock narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

"No," said Sherlock, "Detective Inspection, surely you wouldn't…not with my brother…"

"Hey Sh'lock!" John called out loudly, even though he was still hanging on Sherlock's arm. "How d'ya like my costume. Guess what I am?" asked JOhn, cleverly deflecting Sherlock from Lestrade and dropping his blanket again.

"You're an idiot?" guessed Sherlock.

"Maybe he's a Chippendale?" guessed an anonymous voice

"Oh for God's sake, John. Can' t you keep that blanket on?" snarled Sherlock trying to identify the offender, hold a sleeping child and keep his intoxicated boyfriend upright and covered with the orange blanket.

"Oh for God's sake!" mimicked Emily. "He's an elf. He's an ex-army elf doctor, obviously."

"Yes. Well…" began Sherlock.

"What's a Chippendale?" she asked.

* * *

John smiled and waved, as his girls were driven off with their orange shock blankets and their parents. He waved and waved and smiled his best smile, until the car was out of sight.

Then his face fell. He turned around. Almost dropping his own blanket; fortunately the consulting detective was watching for this because John kept dropping everything, tea, blankets, himself. Sherlock adjusted the blanket again.

John just looked at Sherlock with big, sad, dark-blue eyes. 'They're gone Sherlock," said John, stating the obvious.

"Yes, of course," agreed Sherlock, who was relieved that the small pink trouble makers were finally gone.

Still, their obvious infatuation with John, and, by extension, with himself did make them somewhat less annoying than most small, young people. Their clear and very public rejection of Donovan and even Lestrade in favor of Sherlock was pleasing and…and his emotionally labile blogger was pale, shivering and apparently on the verge of tears.

Sherlock absolutely hated when John's eyes looked like that. John's eyes had looked just like that when Sherlock had returned from his long Absence, and Sherlock did not like to be reminded of that.

"John, what is wrong? Are you in pain?" asked the consulting detective.

"What if I never see them again," John asked. His blue eyes were definitely swimming in tears. "What if their parents hate me and won't let me even stop by for a visit? What if I can't go to Em's recital or Lizzy's birthday party or…"

"Um, I'm sure some arrangements can be made, John," said Sherlock uncertainly.

"I'll miss them."

"Yes, John." The consulting detective urgently waved Lestrade over.

John's brow creased as tried to think through the thickening fog in his head.

"I'm going to miss them," he repeated. "I missed you. Did you miss me?" the blanked slipped off his shoulders and Sherlock pulled it back up, tying to cover John's head.

"Well did you?" asked John persistently.

"Yes."

John relaxed and smiled. He leaned against the taller brunet and let his eyelids close.

"Sorry, Sherlock, John," said Lestrade bustling over. "I'm sorry it's taking so long, but you know how it is."

"I am taking John home," Sherlock announced.

"Oh no, not yet," said Greg Lestrade, "I still have lots of questions for you two, especially him. I need statements…"

"Can't it wait until tomorrow," whined the consulting detective. "Look at him. He's on the verge of collapse. He's probably in shock. He can barely walk, let alone talk."

"I kin walk," said John, lurching forward to demonstrate. He almost dropped his blanket again. "But I might be in…in comtal mental. 'Cause he," now John almost yelled, "He gave me too mush med'cine." The blond blinked and pointed at Lestrade. "No, not you," Then he pointed at an ambulance. 'Yeah."

"Exactly, non compos mentis. Thank you, John, for your invaluable input," said Sherlock.

"D'ya want some more in-put?" suggested John, leering lasciviously and batting his eyes.

"It's your call, Lestrade," said Sherlock adjusting the shock blanket, around his blogger. "You can wait while he gives us his input in public or…"

"Oh for God's sake, what does that even mean?" asked Lestrade, as John listed to one side and crashed into Lestrade. The two detectives braced him upright. Lestrade saw that he was defeated. Still, perhaps there was a silver lining in John's temporary impairment.

"All right, you can take him home," said DI Lestrade magnanimously. "But he obviously can't walk. I'll drive you back to Baker Street in my car, if you fill me in on the highlights while I drive. Deal?"

"Yes, yes, fine," agreed Sherlock. He would have agreed to much worse. He just wanted to get his blogger somewhere safe and warm, somewhere John could sleep off the medication. He wanted John somewhere free from ogling Yarders and leering medics all of whom had an unhealthy interest in John's bum. Sherlock had carefully noted each and every instance of ogling and leering, and it would indeed prove unhealthy for the miscreants, if they ignored the personal warnings that they would soon receive from a high functioning sociopath.

"Good, then go tell Donovan that we're leaving," said the detective inspector drawing Sherlock out of his reverie of retribution.

"Why should I…" began Sherlock indignantly.

"Because, I'm letting you both go, without statements, at least for now. Because I am offering to drive you home. Because I…"

"Fine, anything to get this over with," muttered the tall brunet. "Keep an eye on John. Don't let him fall over… But don't touch him either."

The detective stalked off to find Sergeant Donovan. Lestrade smiled at John. John smiled back with his wide unfocused blue eyes.

"Sooo, John." said Greg Lestrade. "About you and Sherlock?"

"Yes," said John, smiling.

"Yes? Yes the two of you are…well you know…" he waggled his hand suggestively.

"Yes."

"Yes? Yes, you are in a relationship with Sherlock?"

"Yes."

Lestrade thought about this revelation for a minute. He'd suspected this for sometime, but to have it out in the open now? Well, this was just…

"So," said the detective excitedly, "you and Sherlock…the two of you together…"

"Oh for God's sake, I knew you'd try to take advantage of him," growled the consulting detective. "Fortunately, you've failed. Why don't you ask him if he's the King of England? Why don't you ask him if he's a woman?"

The DI's brown eye's widened in comprehension.

"Are, are you a woman?"

"Yes," answered John, still smiling vaguely.

"Oh, God," said Lestrade.

"Yes."

"Just get him into the car, Sherlock," muttered the disappointed detective inspector.

"Am I pretty?" asked John.

**A/N **Sorry, couldn't resist.

Reminder-cover art for Have a Merry Little Christmas by the multi-talented, **anyrei1**, can be found on Tumblr (just google **anyrei/tumblr**)

**Thank you** for reading. My thanks to everyone who has followed or favorited this fic.

**Huge ****THANKS** to those who sent me the equivalent of tea and biscuits by reviewing: dana-san, anyrei1, raspberriesandrum, SamuelE8688, Erenem, Quiet Time, and starrysummernights.

**Disclaimer** I do not own the rights to SHERLOCK.

BTW. I have not commented on Season 3 because I refuse to spoil it for anyone. Just know that I AM FAN-GIRL SCREAMING OFF AND ON ALL DAY, EVERYDAY. I MEAN, WOW!


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N** As promised, an epilogue. Better late than never? I hope so.

Check out the **cover art** for Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas by Googling anyrei/Tumblr or even sendaiv/Tumblr to see the beautiful picture of Sherlock and his ex-army elf created by anyrei1.

Warning-fluff and mistletoe. Hey it was _supposed_ to be a Christmas fic.

**Epilogue**

John slowly dragged himself out of slumber. His face peeked out from under a pile of blankets and duvets. His nose and mouth twitched. Funny, he didn't recognize this room.

He slowly stretched his stiff muscles in the warm bed, the smooth sheets gliding across his bare skin. Right, no shirt. Now that was a bit unusual.

Sitting up, John finally 'observed' the room, chair, dresser, window, periodic table. Periodic table? This was Sherlock's bedroom, a room John had seldom entered. And why, wondered John, was he sitting, half-naked in Sherlock's bed?

He rubbed his face and noticed that his hand, in fact both hands were bruised, scraped, and covered in plasters.

Plasters? Oh, plasters! Ohhh….kidnapped, trapped in a room with his girls, escaped, almost recaptured, rescued at the last second by a very smug and bossy detective, brought home by this bossy detective who forced John to shower (Oh God, he had a vague, fuzzy memory of Sherlock helping him in the shower. Embarrassing. Humiliating. A bit sexy). Then his equally bossy landlady gave him some soup, before he was sent to bed like a child.

Oh God, had he really clung to Sherlock like a limpet and refused to let go? Had Sherlock actually cuddled him and petted him? In bed? Nah, that had to be a dream, except John remembered an awful lot of details.

He smacked his face with his bandaged hand. Finally, Sherlock Holmes brought Three Continents Watson to bed, and then John Watson fallen asleep at his post.

"Of course you fell asleep," rumbled a deep baritone voice. "You'd gone two and half days, with almost no sleep, and then you were given a fairly large dose of pain-killer.," said Sherlock, handing his blogger a steaming mug of Darjeeling

"Um, yeah," said John sipping the pungent brew. "And how long have you been standing there, waiting for me to wake up?"

The tall brunet rolled his eyes, plainly saying 'Don't be an idiot,' with out actually speaking.

Then he continued verbally. "I wasn't standing there waiting, that would be very dull. I was monitoring you via your laptop while I conducted an experiment on the remains of that…that costume, which you insisted on wearing. I have confirmed that it was, in fact, constructed of inferior materials. It was exquisitely sensitive to heat, sharp objects, acids, bases…

"Right, so you've been spying on me while I sleep and torturing my elf costume?" said John with a chuckle. "That should probably be setting off alarm bells, but oddly it doesn't."

Sherlock just smirked.

The blond sipped his tea and said, "I guess, it's just as well that I wasn't planning on wearing the costume again anyway."

"I should think not. I do not appreciate having to fend off the leering advances of men and women alike, while you traipse around the city half-dressed.

John groaned and covered his flaming face with one hand. "I don't traipse, and the costume was for a party."

"I don't want you wearing that sort of thing outside of the flat, John," ordered Sherlock.

"Oh?" questioned John. "And since when do you get to tell me what to wear?"

"It was my understanding that you and I have entered a formal pact, an understanding, if you will…"

"You mean we're in a relationship?" suggested John.

"We've always been in a relationship, John," said the detective beginning to pace.

"You mean we're dating?" tried John.

"No, you dated Sarah and Jezebel…"

"Jeannette."

"Whatever," said Sherlock waving his hand dismissively. "Those pointless liaisons were…dating," he said distastefully.

"Um, maybe we're in a…partnership?"

"Ummmmm," hummed the detective.

"Um, a committed partnership?" asked John.

"Precisely, which, as I understand it, gives me some proprietary rights," snapped the detective, as his trap snapped shut on the groggy, unsuspecting doctor. "Rights which would include the right not to have my boyfriend ogled by every other man and woman in London."

"You're jealous," said John, his mouth dropping open.

"You're ridiculous," said Sherlock, glaring with narrowed eyes. "Do you or do you not agree that in future, you will not go out in public undressed…"

"I was not undressed!"

"I will be happy to call up a nearly infinite number of Internet images, Tweets and e-mails that would differ with your opinion, John."

John scowled. Some of the caffeine finally began to fuel John's brain. Why was he arguing over this? He had been a bit _under_dressed in Mary's wretched elf costume (although calling it undressed was going a bit too far).

And if Sherlock Holmes wanted to be possessive of John Watson, well, that was just fine with John Watson.

"Okay. Yes. I'll clear all my costumes with you in future. Satisfied?" asked John.

Sherlock eyed John again, just to be certain that his blogger was serious. "Very well, John."

With this crucial matter settled, Sherlock moved on to the next item on his agenda. "Since you have chosen to sleep for nearly twenty hours…"

"WHAT?" exclaimed John.

Sherlock repeated his eye roll, although this time it clearly said, 'don't make me repeat myself.'

"…and since our Christmas celebration is long overdue…"

"What celebration? You hate Christmas. You said no presents. You said…"

"I have laid out your comfortable red flannel pajama bottoms, your hideous matching red socks that you claim must be worn on Christmas, your 'I've been a good boy this year' Christmas tee-shirt, and your favorite bland jumper."

John looked at the clothes and pursed his lips. "That's not a Christmas jumper," he complained, more out of habit than anything else.

"No, but it is as hideous as I can stand today. And I did bring the horrible socks with reindeer. Please get up; Christmas is waiting, and we shall begin with breakfast."

* * *

John finished his the last of his surprisingly tasty eggs. Apparently Sherlock practiced learned helplessness and was quite capable in the kitchen, at least with basics. The eggs were so good that John surreptitiously looked around for more. Sherlock immediately offered his.

"No, Sherlock. You promised that you would eat those eggs for me, as my Christmas present. I'll happily have some more toast…Sherlock, please sit back down, and eat your eggs!"

The flat mates glared at one another as Sherlock finished his small portion of eggs and large portion of bacon. John nibbled at his toast more out of habit than hunger, having had three pieces of jam smeared toast already.

As soon as the eggs vanished, John was all sunshine again. "Well, that was a lovely breakfast, even if it is nearly 3 o'clock in the afternoon. Thank you, Sherlock. And since you did the frying, I'll be happy to wash up…"

"Later, John. This is officially Christmas at 221 Baker St, and now we have to do presents," announced Sherlock.

"I'd rather do the mistletoe," said John coyly.

"Later, John. Presents."

"All right?" said the doctor a bit confused. Sherlock was never interested in presents. Presents for him were always predictable, dull and useless. Presents for other people were all but non-existent, which is why John had selected 'Sherlock eats his eggs' as his present.

Sherlock led his bemused flat mate into the sitting room. John noted that there were actually some presents under the little tree which he had set up, and he felt a tiny thrill of Christmas cheer.

* * *

John now sported a thick, comfy green jumper with white trim, which eerily mimicked his elf costume. Since it was ostensibly a present from his girls, John had put it on immediately.

Then, since it seemed to annoy Sherlock, he also put on his elf hat. Mary had washed it before returning it, (and ruined any evidence, according to Sherlock). Rather like it's owner, it was a bit battle-damaged with a mended tear, stains and a red bell that was crumpled. John and Sherlock both agreed that Anderson must have trod on the hat and crushed the little, red bell.

Battle-damaged John still had bruises and two plasters on his face. At least .he hadn't needed anything more than butterfly strips for his cuts, and he had already been removed all but one of the plasters from his hands.

The two flat mates sipped at the red wine that Sherlock had given John as a gift. From their friends and Mycroft (who, according to Sherlock, was not considered a friend), they had each received some boring, predictable books and jumpers, another dull bottle of wine and some biscuits, which were, of course, from Mrs. Hudson. They agreed that the biscuits were very tasty (or not too boring, according to Sherlock).

John studied his flat mate who was bouncing with suppressed energy. This meant something, but John, not being a genius, was unsure what that something was.

"Are you bored?" asked John. "We can be done with Christmas if you like?"

Sherlock froze, as if his brother had suddenly materialized in front of the biscuits.

"What?" asked John. "Sherlock what is it?"

"John!" said Sherlock severely. "You stated, for the record, that you would celebrate Christmas, regardless of my intentions. You stated, and I believe that this is a quote, 'I plan to make a nice dinner on Christmas and I intend to eat it with or without you, Sherlock. And I will buy you a present if I want to, and I don't give a, expletive, whether you give me a present or not," finished the now stropy detective with a curiously high-pitched voice.

John pursed his lips and raised his forehead creases to irritated status. "First of all, I do not sound like that Sherlock. I do not sound like a girl. Second, the veal has gone bad and so I will not be making Christmas dinner; I'll be ordering take-away. And since when do you care about a getting a present from me?"

"I don't," said the consulting detective, becoming aloof and staring at the wallpaper. "I merely thought that you cared. I have researched the appropriate way for mixed religion couples to celebrate holidays and we are supposed to be supportive of one another's holidays. So if you want to give me a present on Christmas, I should be supportive of that."

"Wait, we're a couple?" asked John with a little smile that he quickly hid by looking at his wine.

"Obviously," said the tall man. "Now if…"

"What exactly do think our religions are, Sherlock?" asked John, wrinkling his brow in thoughtful mode.

"Dear God. If I'd known that half a glass of wine would impair your limited mental faculties, I never would have purchased the wine," said Sherlock, rolling his greenish-blue eyes.

"No really, I want to know," said John, preparing himself for the answer with a sip of the really very tasty wine.

Sherlock sighed, indicating that his partner's low IQ was painful to him, but he would nonetheless answer, "Despite your apparent rejection of organized religion you have fallen for the fallacious doctrine of Christianity. I on the other hand, am an atheist, which is the only logical…'

"And your research said that it's okay to pretend that your religion is logical and mine is fallacious?" interrupted John, more amused than offended. Well, he was a tiny bit offended but still…

"Ah, well no. I am supposed to be supportive. The point is, your religious and cultural traditions indicate that gift giving…

"Gift giving? Again?" John's brows lowered as he thought very, very hard.

"OH MY GOD!" yelled John, startling the younger man. "Oh my God! You know. How? How did you find out? How?" He stood in front of his boyfriend with hands behind his back at parade rest and chin thrust out. Even his wrinkles stood at the ready.

"Do you feel that that pose makes you look somehow taller or more intimidating," said Sherlock, attempting to deflect.

"You know. You know, _and you've already seen it_. You've seen my present to you. Haven't you? Well? Haven't you?" demanded John.

"Molly spilled the beans," said the detective, generously sharing the blame. "I admit that I did have to check on the, um, gift to make sure that the freezer was correctly installed."

John was silently chewing his lip. Not the best sign, but then it was better than John yelling thought Sherlock.

The detective continued his explanation, "You were missing; in fact, you were kidnapped, John. Someone had to check on the freezer. And anyway, I only had time to look briefly, very briefly. And can we go downstairs now," he said bouncing up and down on his toes again.

John scowled at the floor. John had really wanted to see the surprised look on Sherlock's face. On the other hand, why take it out on Sherlock? It was mostly Roberts' fault for kidnapping John and his girls and ruining everyone's Christmas. On the other, other hand, why on earth did anyone need to 'check on the freezer'. On the other, other, other hand, Sherlock had really tried very hard to make a belated Christmas for John. Sherlock had bought John some wine. And Sherlock ate his eggs as promised. And he made tea for John twice. And the tall brunet looked rather adorable all flushed and bouncy and excited. Which meant that he liked John's present…

"Yesss, we can go down to 221 C," said John slowly. Sherlock whirled around ready to go. "But we need to wear something warm. It gets cold and damp down there, and I refuse to get chilled again."

"John," said Sherlock tugging his flat mate. "You are wearing hideous but warm red-flannels and wool socks. You've put on your hideous, new, imitation-elf, wool jumper. You even wearing that repulsive hat. I am quite sure that you will be warm enough in 221 C; now come on, John."

John allowed himself to be tugged, snagging the wine bottle on the way to the stairs. "Hey, Sherlock, do you know what's happened to my copper pipe?"

"Your what?"

"My all-purpose tool and weapon, my trusty, copper pipe!"

"Evidence, John! It was taken in for evidence."

John nodded and pretended not to be disappointed. Maybe he could get another pipe, just to use temporarily until his all-purpose pipe was released?

The shorter blond was dragged into the newly refurbished basement flat, which John had re-painted himself. He noted with a shake of his head that Sherlock must have picked the lock.

The lab tables were already covered with a good bit of lab-clutter: chemicals, beakers, a test tube rack, some bones. A tall stool stood at ready, in front of Sherlock's microscope.

A fume hood, which John had salvaged from a school remodel, held the shredded, burned and melted remains of the elf tunic.

As Sherlock liked to say, so far so expected. However, John was more than a bit surprised to see a fire in the fireplace. And a Persian rug had been placed in front of the fire with two comfortable old chairs. There was even a battered end table, with a lamp and medical journals on it.

The fire warmed the far end of the room and even made the wallpaper seem lovely and homey (It was more of the same Victoriana-style paper that graced 221 B).

John turned, and tilted his head questioningly.

"The lab was…is perfect John. I have never…received a better present," said the taller man. "But, I did not imagine that it would be suitable for my assistant without some creäture comforts," the detective, looked down with raised brows at his slack-jawed boyfriend. For just a moment, the detective was afraid he had bungled yet again and somehow offended his John.

"Sher…" John looked down and swallowed, "Sherlock. That is…." John nodded. "Yes. That is very…um. Thank you. I mean, just you wanting me to um, be with you in your lab is…nice." John nodded again.

"So," continued John, trying to suppress his unruly emotions, "you've been using the lab already? For how long?"

"I only started using it after we got back. It was dull just watching you sleep."

"Didn't you sleep at all?" asked John.

"Yes of course. I slept for a bit when you wouldn't let go of me," said the brunet with a smile twitching at his lips. "After that, I decided that it would be logical to make sure that the lab was all right."

"Ah. And is it?"

"What?"

"The lab, is it really, all right?" asked John nervously.

"Yes. Actually, it's a bit…perfect, John," said Sherlock, accidentally repeating himself. "And if you could occasionally accompany me or even assist me, well, that might make it more perfect."

Sherlock loomed over his blogger and then guided him backwards, until they stood on the rug, in front of the fire.

"Merry Christmas, John." said the tall brunet, placing a chaste kiss on the blond.

John stood with his bottle in one hand and another on Sherlock's waist. He smiled but still looked a bit befuddled.

The consulting detective tsk'd loudly. "Oh for God's sake, look up, John. Mistletoe! This is one of your socio-religious traditions. It was your idea; you went on about it all last week and…"

John got over his confusion. He knew what to do with mistletoe. He reached up with his free hand and brought his detective's face down within easy reach.

They shared a long slow kiss. John's hand reached up further to bury itself in Sherlock's unruly curls.

Sherlock was in bliss. He had his blogger all to himself, in his own personal lab that was full of specimens for examination. But it was the presence of John that brought him peace, John who loved him and understood him like no one else.

He licked John's lip and gently sucked on it; somehow it was John that was the most important thing in this room. He deepened the kiss and was rewarded with a moan from his blogger.

Sherlock extracted the wine bottle from John's loose grip and set it aside. Then he gently guided his blogger down to the rug. He was mindful of John's bruises and cuts, so he stretched out in front of the fireplace and pulled his elf on top of him.

The bells on that ridiculous hat dangled in front of him and he batted them out-of-the-way. Then he lifted his head up off of the floor and slid his lips over John's neck and chin, trailing up to those pink lips.

John was glad that they ended up on the rug in front of the fire. Sherlock's kisses had been making him dizzy. Now, he was stretched out on top of his love, safe and warm. They leisurely tasted each other's lips, caressed cheeks and nibbled under ears.

John contentedly laid his head on Sherlock's shoulder; he hummed softy as the detective examined and kissed each abraded finger and each bruised knuckle.

Then Sherlock rolled them over, so that they lay on their stomachs stretched out in front of the fire.

"All right John Watson," said Sherlock, "I can tell you are falling asleep. How is that possible when you slept for twenty hours already?"

"I dunno Sherlock," said John, who leaned into the gentle hand that caressed his face.

"You can't sleep down here, your shoulder…"

"I certainly _can_ sleep down here," protested John. "I want to stay with _you_."

"Mmmm," hummed the consulting detective. "Well, that suits me then. Merry Christmas, John." he added, gently kissing his blogger's cheek.

John looked away from the hypnotizing flames to return the kiss, and he whispered, "Merry Christmas, luv."

THE END :D

**A/N** Thank you for hanging in there with me. This is another fic that got away from me. fortunately, I had the help of an ex-army elf and a consulting genius. Together we whipped this story into shape and managed to finish it…for now. I have a this sicky-sweet, treacly feeling that there might be mini-fluffquels to follow. (Fluff+sequel=fluffquel, obviously :{) LOL :{

**Thank you** to everyone who read, followed and favorited this fic.

**Thank you** to everyone who was kind enough to review my story including : DrGregor, Lysbethrachael, raspberriesandrum, dana-san, Quiet Time, starrysummernights, SamuelE8688, Erenem, power0girl, and anyrei1 (she who created the cover art which can be viewed by googling anyrei/Tumblr or sendaiv/Tumblr)

**Disclaimer **I do not own the rights to SHERLOCK. I did not get the rights for Christmas, RATS!


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